Killashandra (24 page)

“Popularly accepted?” Lars lifted half out of the cockpit seat in reaction. “What a way to phrase it! It is the most singularly unpopular, repressive, frustrating, discouraging facet of the Optherian Charter. Do you know what our suicide rate is? Well, I can give you hard statistics on that. We made a study of the incidents and have copies of what notes have been left by the deceased. Nine out of ten cite the hopelessness and despair at having no place to go, nothing to do. If you’re lucky enough to be unemployed on Optheria, oh, you’re given food, shelter, clothing, and assigned stimulating community service to occupy you. Community service!—Trimming thorn hedges, tidying up hillsides, dusting boulders in the roadways, painting and repainting federal buildings, stuffing the faces and wiping the bottoms of the incontinent at both ends of life. Truly rewarding and fulfilling occupations for the intelligent and well educated failures that this planet throws upon the altar of the organ!”

He had been emphasizing his disgust with blows of his fist to the tiller, until Killashandra covered his hand with hers.

“Which one of our messages got through? It’s been like tossing a bottle message into the Broad Sea with precious little hope of its ever floating to the Mainland.”

“The complaint originated with the Executive Council of the Federated Artists’ Association, who claim a freedom of choice restriction. A Stellar made the charge, though I wasn’t told which one. His principal concern was with the suppression of composers and performers.” She gave him a wry grin.

Lars raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It wasn’t me who sent that one.” Then he seemed to take heart, his
expression lightening with renewed hope. “If one appeal got through, maybe others have, and we’ll have a whole school of people helping us—And you’ll help us?”

“Lars, I’m required to be an impartial—”

“I wouldn’t dream of prejudicing you …” His twinkling eyes challenged her as he threw his free arm about her shoulders, nibbling at her ear.

“Lars, you’re crushing me. You’re supposed to be sailing this ship … I’ve got to think how to go on from here. To be candid, I really don’t have much more than your word that there is a widespread dissatisfaction, and not just a few isolated instances or personal grudges.”

“Do you know how long we’ve been trying to reach the Federated Council?” Now Lars gestured wildly in his agitation. “Do you know what it will mean to the others when I tell them one message
has
got through, and someone is actually investigating?”

“There’s another matter that we have to discuss, Lars. Is it advisable to
tell
them, or would it be wiser for me to continue covertly?” His jubilation subsided as he considered her question. “I suppose the suicide file would be acceptable as valid evidence. Has the restriction matter ever been put to the vote here?”

“A vote on Optheria?” He laughed sourly. “You haven’t read that abominable Charter, have you?”

“I scanned it. A boring document, all those high-flown phrases turned my pragmatic stomach.” Before Killashandra’s eyes rose the vision of tortured architecture coping with “natural formations” so as not to “rape” the Natural World. “So there is no referendum mechanism in the Charter?”

“None. The Elders run this planet and, when one of them keels over and can no longer be resuscitated, a replacement is appointed—by the remaining undefunct Elders.”

“No rising from the ranks on merit here?”

“Only in the Conservatory, and for especially meritorious composition and exceptional performance ability. Then one might possibly, on rare occasions, aspire to reach the exalted rank of a Master. Once in a century, a Master might possibly gain an appointment to the Council of Elders.

“Is that what you were after?”

Lars gave her a wry grin. “I tried! I was even willing to assault you to gain favor and show them what a good, useful, boy I was.”

He snorted at his gullibility.

“Granted, I haven’t heard an approved composition, much less yours, played on the sensory organ,” Killashandra began in casual accents, “but I was tremendously impressed by your performance the other evening. The musical one.”

“The time, the place, the ambiance …”

“Not so fast, Lars Dahl. I was a trained musician before I became a crystal singer. I can be a critical auditor … and when I heard your music, I didn’t know you as well as I do now, so that is an unbiased assessment. If by any chance the Stellar who lodged the complaint with the Artists’ Association had had you in mind, I second his concern.”

Lars regarded her with a genuine surprise. “You would? What music training did you have?”

“I studied for ten years at the Fuerte Music Center. Voice.”

Lars nearly lost grip on the tiller and before he had altered the course, the
Pearl
yawed in the rough seas, throwing Killashandra against him. “
You
were the soprano that night?”

“Yes.” She grinned. “I recognized your tenor at the barbecue. Where did you learn Baleef’s
Voyagers?
And the
Pearl Fishers
duet? Certainly not in the Conservatory.”

“My father. He’d brought some of his microlibrary with him when he came to Optheria.”

“Your father is naturalized?”

“Oh, yes. Like yourself, he didn’t come to the islands by choice. If we mention your true identity to no one else—and what
is
your true name? Or don’t crystal singers give them?”

“You mean to say you don’t know the name of the woman you assaulted and then abducted?” Killashandra pretended outrage.

Lars shook his head, grinning at her with an almost boyish mischief.

“Killashandra Ree.”

He repeated the syllables slowly, then smiled. “I like that much better than Carrigana. That was a rather harsh name to say endearingly. The
ells
and the
sh
are sweeter.”

“Possibly the only sweet thing about me, I warn you, Lars.”

He pointedly ignored that remark. “My father must know who you are, Killashandra. It will give him new heart for I’ll tell you frankly, he was far more discouraged about those arrested in the Elders’ search than he let on to the others. Nor”—he paused, only then aware of the water sloshing in the cockpit about their toes—“nor do I like deceiving Nahia. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“No, she doesn’t. Though I have the feeling she already has a good idea that I’m not the island maid I’ve been portraying.”

“Oh? Was she at that reception in the Conservatory?”

“No, but she sensed the crystal resonance.” Killashandra stroked her arm explanatorily. Lars caressed her then.

“You mean, that’s what I’ve been feeling whenever we touch?”

Killashandra gave him a reassuring smile. “Not entirely, lover. Some of it is a perfectly spontaneous combustion.”

Lars guffawed at that, embracing her once again.

“Shouldn’t I bail or something?” she asked as the chill sea water splashed over her toes. His arm restrained her.

“Not just yet.” He frowned, glancing off to port, not really seeing the sprouts of islets as he corrected their course a few points easterly. “However, if we tell my father and Nahia who you are—”

“Hauness, too?”

“What Nahia knows, Hauness does, and safe enough in both their hands. But then what? Hard copy on the suicide files is rapidly available. But I should insist that you meet with other groups to prove unquestionably that the arbitrary restriction to Optheria is not popularly acceptable.”

“I’m glad you agree to that.”

“In doing that, you will also need to avoid the Elders. It wouldn’t do for them to discover you blithely treading the cobbles at Ironwood or the terraces of Maitland.”

“You never told them you’d kidnapped me, so why couldn’t I visit other communities?”

“Because you’ve now been missing for five weeks. How would you explain such an absence, much less why you haven’t repaired their precious Festival organ?”

“I’d’ve done that if that wretched security officer hadn’t been in his flatulent dotage! My absence is easy to explain. I just don’t explain it.” She shrugged diffidently.

Lars sniggered. “You don’t know how much our Elders dislike mysteries—”

“You have seen me playing a humble island maid, Lars. Try seeing me as a highly indignant and aristocratic member of the Heptite Guild.” As she spoke, her
voice became strange, disdainful, and Killashandra pulled herself arrogantly erect. Lars started to remove his arm from her shoulders in reaction to the transformation. “I’m
more
than a match for Ampris or Torkes. And they need my services far too much to annoy me again.”

“I’m obliged to mention that they’ve sent for a replacement—”

“I know that.”

“How could you?”

Killashandra grinned at him. “Crystal singers have preternaturaly acute hearing. You and your little band of conspirators were only across the room from me. I heard every word.”

Lars momentarily let the tiller slip but Killashandra grabbed it and steadied the helm.

“A second crystal singer might be all to the good, depending on who they send. But we’ve time to spare—it’ll take nearly ten weeks to get another singer here. I happen to need the contract money so I’ll repair their damned organ. Maybe this time, I’ll get the kind of help I need.” A thought suddenly struck Killashandra. “By all that’s holy, I’ll get you!” She prodded Lars’s chest with her forefinger.

Lars snorted with derision. “I’m the last person welcome in the Conservatory!”

“Ah, but you will be welcome—as the man who rescued this poor abandoned crystal singer from durance vile!”

“What?”

“Well, that would answer why I’ve been absent. But, of course, I never set eyes on my abductor so I can’t say who it might be.” Killashandra fluttered her eyelashes in mock horror. “There I was, taking a stroll to compose myself after that horrible confrontation with an officious oaf and
wham! bang
! I’m coshed on the
head and wake up, all alone, on a desert island, heavens know where!” Killashandra got into the part with a faked swoon. “I’m less of a ham with a properly respectful audience, I might add. But there I am. Lost! Who knows who the dastards are—using a plural will suggest a whole group of conspirators, you see—And then you …” Killashandra laid a delicate hand on Lars’s arm. His eyes were bright with mirth and he had his lips pressed together against distracting laughter. “You—loyal despite your terrible disappointment”—and Killashandra put her hand to her breast and breathed hard “—rescued me and insisted on returning me to the safety of the City, to install the crystal manual so that the priceless organ will be ready for the Summer Festival. Thus currying favor with the powers that be—which, in view of your subversive activities, is a very good idea—and saving them the cost of another expensive crystal singer. We are very expensive to hire, you see. And I have the impression that the Elders are credit-crunchers.”

Lars began to chuckle, rubbing his chin as if he was visualizing those moments of triumph.

“If you can be trusted not to overact”—he ducked as she shook her fist at him—“you know, it might work.”

“Of course it will work! I was able to gauge audience reactions to a pico. And more than just give you a well-deserved return for their meanness and chicanery to you, I’ll pretend that I’m so very nervous about a repetition of assault and battery that I’ll need you by my side
all
the time.”

“I think,” Lars began, slowly, thoughtfully, “Father and the others will like this plan.”

“Oh?”

Lars gave a rueful snort. “I got rather soundly told off for acting in a unilateral fashion when I abducted
you, you know. My father is a mild mannered man most of the time—”

“Then let us by all means present this idea to him—them. And by the way, speaking of mild-mannered men, what do you know about Corish von Mittelstern?”

“The man looking for his uncle?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, he’s not an Optherian agent if that’s what you’re worried about. We checked him for residue.”

“Checked him for what?”

“D’you recall the arc at the shuttleport? That’s to prevent Optherians from leaving the planet. The arc is set to detect a mineral residue that is present in our bone marrow. There’s absolutely no argument with the port guards if you try to enter the shuttleport. They just shoot.”

“And that’s activated by any Optherian passing the sensors?”

“Even visitors who’ve stayed long enough to absorb sufficient trace to be detected.” Lars’s expression was sour. “Like my father.”

Killashandra half heard that comment, as she was thinking back to her exit from the port. Thyrol had been right beside her and the alarm hadn’t gone off for them, though it had when the rest of the Optherian quartette had passed.

“Strange, that,” she said half to herself. “No, Corish isn’t Optherian. He came out on the
Athena
with me. But I’ve a very good notion that he’s an FSP agent of some sort. I mean, what good is just one impartial observer if the object is to change the
status quo
of an entire planet? Even if I am a crystal singer.”

“Did Corish know that?”

“No.” Killashandra chuckled. “To Citizen von Mittelstern I was a brash and impulsive music student traveling cheap to the Summer Festival!” When Lars gave
her a puzzled look, she laughed. “Being a crystal singer entails some rather curious disadvantages which are not relevant to the more important discussion at hand.”

“I don’t know much about crystal singers—”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” she said, waggling a finger under his nose. “But I’d very much like to know more about Corish, and if there is a missing uncle.”

“Why didn’t Corish recognize you on the beach?”

“The same reason you didn’t. And he didn’t know me all that well,” she added, a bit amused by Lars’s reaction. “He rather obviously, at least to me, cultivated the company of an innocuous and silly young music student. And one or two other anomalies alerted me.”

“I’d encountered a few of those creatures recently myself,” Lars remarked in a reproving drawl.

“I did the best I could with the background material I had.”