Killashandra, page 24
“Subliminals!” Killashandra seethed with horror at the potentially total control. “And he found the access? Where? All I need is one look at them—”
Lars regarded her solemnly. “That’s all we need—once we find them. They’ve got to be somewhere in the organ loft.”
“Well, then”—Killashandra embraced him exuberantly—“wasn’t I clever to insist that you and I handle the repairs all by ourselves.”
“If we’re allowed!”
“You’ve the jammer.” She rose from the deep bath, Lars following her. “Say, if your father’s so clever with electronics, why hasn’t he figured a way to jam the shuttleport detection arch?”
Lars chuckled as she dried him, for once more interested in something other than his physical effect on her.
“He’s spent close to thirty years trying. We even have a replica of the detector on Angel. But we cannot figure a way to mask that residue. Watch out for my ears!” She had been briskly toweling his hair.
“Does the detector always catch the native?”
“Infallible.”
“And yet …” She wrapped her hair in a towel. She pointed to the jammer and then proceeded to the salon. Lars followed, the jammer held above his head like a torch, a diabolical gleam in his eye as he waved it at each of the monitors he passed. “Yet when Thyrol came out right with me, the detector didn’t catch him. And passed me.”
“What? No matter how many people pass under it, it will always detect the native!”
“It didn’t then! I wonder if it had anything to do with crystal resonance.”
“You mean in you?”
“Hmmm. It’s not exactly something we can experiment with, is it? Prancing in and out of the shuttleport.”
“Hardly—and we’re half a world away from the only other one.”
“Well, we can worry about that later. After we’ve found the access and after we’ve repaired that wretched organ! Now,” and she opened the doors of the beverage store with a flourish, “what shall we drink with our supper?”
Killashandra woke before the chimes, which did not sound in her suite but were nevertheless audible from the adjacent sections of the Conservatory. She woke refreshed and totally relaxed, and cautiously eased herself away from Lars’s supine body so that she might have a better view of his sleeping form. She felt oddly protective of him as she propped her head on one hand and minutely inspected his profile. Thus she noticed that the tips of his long eyelashes were bleached and the lid itself was not as dark as the surrounding skin. Fine laugh, or sun lines, fanned out from the corners to the temple. The arch of his nose just missed being too high, too thin, being balanced by fine modeling and length. His cheeks wore a dusting of freckles which she hadn’t noticed before. And several dark brow hairs were out of line as the brow curved around the eye socket. Several hairs bristled straight up at the inner edges of brows that would almost meet when he frowned.
She liked best his wide lips, more patrician than sensual. She knew the havoc they could raise with her body and felt they were perhaps his best feature. Even in sleep, the corners raised slightly. His chin was rather broader than one was aware when his face was mobile, but the strong jawline swept back to well-shaped ears, also tan, with a spot of new sunburn about to peel on the top skin.
The column of his neck was strong and the pulse beat in his throat. She wanted to put her finger tip on it and almost did before retracting her hand. He was more truly hers when asleep, untouched by stress, relaxed, his rib cage barely moving.
She loved the line of his chest, the smooth skin clothing smooth pectoral muscle, and once again she had to repress the wish to run her hand down the shape of him, to feel the fine crisp hair on his chest. He was not hirsute and she found that much to her preference as well, his legs and arms having only a fine dusting of blond hairs.
She had seen handsomer men but the composition of his face pleased her better. Lanzecki—now that was the first time she’d thought of him in days—actually was the more distinguished in looks, heavier in build. She decided she preferred the way Lars Dahl was put together.
She sighed. It was easier to be philosophical about Lanzecki. Would she have been as easily resigned to that loss if she hadn’t met Lars Dahl? She had broken off with Lanzecki for his own good, but she hadn’t “lost” him, for she would return to Ballybran. Once she’d left Optheria …
For a moment her emotions hovered above a new abyss of despair and regret. And for the first time in her life, the thought of bearing a man’s child crossed her mind. That was as much an impossibility as remaining with Lars, but it emphasized the depth of her emotional envolvement with the man. Perhaps it was just as well that no child was possible, that their liaison would end when this assignment was over. She surprised herself! Children were something other people had. To feel that desire was remarkable.
Optheria, for all its conservatism and alleged security, had unexpected facets of danger. Not the least of which were her adventures so far. She could hardly fault Trag, or rail at the Encyclopedia Galactica. Facts she had had. What couldn’t have been foreseen were the astonishing predicaments which had entangled her. And the fascinating personalities.
More extraordinary still, she remembered all too vividly, and with just a trace of chagrin, her rantings and ravings and desperations when she’d left Ballybran, a sacrifice to the Guild for Lanzecki’s good. Now, when contemplating a much deeper and irreversible loss, why was she so calm, fatalistically resigned, even philosophical. How very strange! Had her loss of Lanzecki inured her to others? Or was she mistaking her feelings for Lars Dahl? No! She’d remember Lars Dahl for the rest of her life without benefit of data retrieval.
The second chimes rang faintly across the open court outside the windows. Faint but sufficient to waken Lars. He was as neat on wakening as he was in sleep. His eyes opened, his right hand searched for her body, his head turned and his smile began as he located her. Then he stretched, arms above his head, back arching toward her as he extended his legs and then on the top of his extension, suddenly retracted himself, drawing her against him, to complete a morning ritual which included the exercise of their intimate relationship. Each time, they seemed to discover something new about themselves and their responses. She particularly liked Lars’s capacity for invention, stimulating as it did heretofore unsuspected originalities in herself.
As usual hunger roused them from these variations.
“Breakfast here is the heartiest meal,” Lars said cheerfully, striding quickly for the catering unit. “You’ll like it.”
Killashandra saw that he had left the jammer behind him, and she followed him at a quick trot, holding the device up to distort anything else he might say.
He laughed. “We’d best leave them something to hear. A discussion of breakfast must be sufficiently innocuous.”
Killashandra settled in one of the chairs near the catering unit, swiveling her hand as she looked at the little jammer. If only some way could be found to mask that mineral residue in Optherians! Blank out the detector.
“You know,” Killashandra said as they ate, sitting companionably together on the elegant seating unit, “I simply cannot understand this concentration on one instrument—albeit a powerful one—but they’re wiping out more than ninety-nine percent of the FSP’s musical traditions and repertoire, as well as stultifying talents and potential. I mean, your tenor is formidable!”
Lars shrugged, giving her a tolerant side glance. “Everyone sings—at least in the islands, they do.”
“But you know how to sing.”
Lars cocked an eyebrow at her, still humoring what he felt was her excessive fascination with a minor ability.
“Everyone knows how to sing—”
“I don’t mean just opening the mouth and shouting, Lars Dahl. I mean, projecting a voice, supporting it properly on the breath, phrasing the music, carrying the dynamic line forward.
“When did I do all that?”
“When we did that impromptu duet. When you sang on the beach, when you did that magnificent duet from The Pearl Fishers.”
“I did?”
“Of course. I studied voice for ten years. I—” She shut her mouth.
“Then why are you a crystal singer instead of one of these famous vocal artists?”
A surge of impotent fury, followed by a wave of regret, and then a totally incomprehensible loathing of Lars for reminding her so acutely of the interview with Maestro Valdi—the moment that had changed her life—rendered Killashandra speechless.
Lars watched her, his mild curiosity turning to concern as he saw the emotions in her stormy eyes and face. He put a hand on her bare thigh. “What did I say to distress you so?”
“Nothing you said, Lars.” She dismissed all that from consideration. It was over and done with. “I had all the requirements to be a Stellar, except one. A voice.”
“Ah, now.” Lars pulled back in indignation.
“I’m quite serious. There’s a flaw, a noticeable and unpleasant burr in the voice that would have limited me to secondary roles.”
Lars laughed now, his white teeth gleaming in his tanned faced, his eyes sparkling. “And you, my beloved Sunny,” he kissed her lightly, “would never settle for being second in anything! Are you first among crystal singers, then?”
“I don’t do badly. I’ve sung black crystal, which is the hardest to find and cut properly. In any event, there aren’t degrees among singers. One cuts to earn enough credit for the things one needs and wants.” Now why wasn’t she being totally honest with Lars? Why didn’t she confess that the sole aim of most crystal singers was sufficient credit not to have to sing crystal—to leave Ballybran for as long as possible?
“I wouldn’t have thought crystal singers are so much like islanders,” Lars surprised her by saying. “Well, you cut for what you need and want, much as we fish or plant polly, but all we really need is available.”
“It’s not quite the same thing with crystal,” Killashandra said slowly, glad she had been less than honest. Why disillusion Lars needlessly? On so many worlds, in so many minds, there were so many misconceptions about crystal singers, she had not realized how much a relief it was to find an unbiased world—at least one unbiased with respect to her Guild.
“Cutting crystal seems more dangerous than fishing.” He stroked her scarred hand. “Or learning polly.”
“Stick to fishing, Lars. Crystal’s hazardous to your health. Now, we’d best apply ourselves to fulfill my Guild contract with these fardling fools. And maybe shake them out of their organic rut!”
They dressed and then Killashandra entered the number Mirbethan had given her. The woman seemed immensely relieved to accept the call and said that Thyrol would be with them directly.
“D’you suppose he slept in the hall?” Killashandra murmured to Lars as she answered the polite scratching on the hall door. Lars shook his head violently, then held up his hand while he deactivated the jammer and pocketed it. “Good morning, Thyrol. Lead on.” She gestured peremptorally, smiling at Thyrol before she noticed two burly men in security uniforms. “I have no need of them!” she said coldly.
“Ah … they will not interfere, Guildmember.”
“I’ll make sure of that, Thyrol. I will need the duragloves—”
“Everything you requested before your unfortunate disappearance is in the organ loft.”
“Oh, very well then. It’s gathered dust long enough. Lead on!”
Once again the instinctive reaction to tiptoe and maintain silence affected Killashandra as they emerged onto the stage of the Festival auditorium. She glanced at Lars to see if he was similarly affected. He grimaced slightly and she noticed that his active stride perceptibly altered. She did not miss the almost covetous way he frowned at the covered organ console. And wondered what she could do about that! She had been entranced with the music he played on the twelve-stringed instrument, and she was eager to hear it with organ amplification. Or would that be too cruel an imposition?
As Thyrol used his keys on the panel to the loft, Killashandra wondered if among them were the keys that would allow access to subliminal mechanisms. All three on that ring were apparently needed to open the loft door. Or would someone of Thyrol’s rank even know about such a refinement? She presumed it was limited to Elder rank only, or maybe a Master of two. They’d need someone with a hefty dab of imagination and energy to create subliminal images. Unless the subliminals reflected the inflexibility of the Elders’ attitudes toward everything, which was also logical—Why search for a template when one was oneself the ultimate role model?
The necessary equipment was indeed in the loft, neatly stacked against one side of the long wall. Lars maintained an attitude of casual indifference after giving the room a sweeping glance. Killashandra noted the monitor buds, caught Lars’s glance and gave him a nod. She waited until his hand disappeared into his pocket and then bent over the open console and the glittering shards of crystal.
“Lars Dahl, grab a mask and some gloves, and bring that bin over here. And a mask and gloves for me. I don’t fancy inhaling crystal dust in those close quarters.” Then she looked up at the burly men taking up so much space in the loft. “Out!” She flicked her fingers at them. “Out, out, out, out! You’re taking up space and air.”
“This room is well ventilated, Guildmember,” Thyrol began.
“That is not the point. I dislike observers peering at my every move. There’s no need for them. Certainly no one can get in or out of here. They can stand on the other side of the door and repel boarders! In fact, Thyrol, without meaning offense, your absence would oblige.”
“But—”
“You’ll only be hovering. I’m sure you have more important duties than hovering! And you’re a distraction—Or, are you one of those I’m to teach crystal installation?”
Thyrol drew back, affronted by the suggestion and without further protest retired from the loft.
“Now,” Killashandra began, not even watching the man leave, “the first thing we must do is clear the shards. Stick to the larger pieces, Lars Dahl. My body deals with cuts more easily than yours. Hang up that lid. We’ll put the pieces on that before transferring them to the bin. Crystal has a disastrous habit of spraying shards when it bounces … Shouldn’t want unnecessary accidents to mar this procedure.”
“Why’d you want the jammer on in here? Guild secrets?” Lars’s voice was muffled by the mask.
“I just want them to understand that monitors won’t work around me. I was brought up on a planet that respects privacy and I’m not allowing Optherians to violate that right. Not for all the sensory organs on this narking world. Besides, how else can we search for the access? It would look far odder if suddenly their scanners don’t work, than if they haven’t worked from the start. Now, let’s do what we came for.”
It was slow work, especially once Lars had cleared the larger pieces. The extractor could be used only in short bursts; continued suction expelled tiny splinters right through the bag. For that reason, the bag had to be emptied and brushed out after each burst.
“It’d be easier with two of these, wouldn’t it?” When Killashandra nodded, Lars strode to the door panel, slid it open, and issued the request. Killashandra heard a murmured reply. “Now, I said! We don’t have time to wait for the request to go through Security. By the First Fathers! Does everything have to be authorized by Ampris. Move it! Now!”
Killashandra grinned at him. Lars’s return grin was pure satisfaction.
“If you knew how often I’ve wanted to bark at a Security man—”
“I can’t honestly imagine you making meek—”
“You’d be surprised at what I’m willing to do for a good reason.” He gave her a singularly wicked look.
A case of the extractors was delivered in half an hour by an officer whom Lars later told Killashandra was Blaz’s second in command, but not a bad fellow for all of that. Castair had been known to look the other way during student romps which Blaz never would have permitted.
“Guildmember,” Castair began, as Lars took the case from him, “there’s some problem with the monitoring system in here.”
“There is?” Killashandra straightened up from the console, glancing about her.
Castair indicated the corner nodules.
“Well, I don’t want someone distracting me while I’m doing this. Your repairs can wait. We certainly are not damaging anything!”
“No, of course not, Guildmember.”
“Then leave it for now.” She waved him off, bending back to the tedious cleaning before he had left.
“Perfect pitch is not the only talent required to sing crystal.” Lars’s comment startled Killashandra as she finally stood erect, arching her back against tight muscles. “Oh?”
His expression was a mixture of respect and something else. “A crystal singer has total concentration and an absence of normal human requirements—such as hunger!”
Killashandra twisted her wrist to look at the chrono and chuckled, leaning against the unit behind her. It was mid-afternoon and they had been working steadily since nine that morning.
“You should have given me a nudge.”
“Several,” Lars said drily. “I only mention it now because you’re looking a bit white under your tan. Here.” He thrust a heatpak at her. “I do not have your dedication so I sent for food.”
“Without authorization?” Killashandra broke the seal on the soup, aware that she was very hungry indeed.
“I took a hint from your manner and pretended they had no option but obedience.” He shook his head. “Are all crystal singers like you?”
“I’m pretty mild,” she said, sipping carefully at the now heated soup. Lars passed her a plate of small sandwiches and crackers. “I only act the maggot when circumstances require. Especially with this lot of idiots.” She lifted and rotated one shoulder to ease back muscles. Lars came to her side, pushing her away from her perch, and began to massage her back. His fingers unerringly found the tension knot, and she murmured her gratitude. “I hate this part of working in crystal so I’d rather get it over and done with as fast as possible.”
