Crystal Singer (34 page)

In Killashandra’s estimation, the occasion rapidly deteriorated into a very bad comic opera in which no one had studied lines or recognized cues. Francu and his executive officer would never have advanced past preliminary auditions. The other flight deck officers seemed to take turns asking her conventionally stupid questions to which, piqued, she gave outrageous and contradictory answers. Only Tallaf, seated at the other end of the table, appeared to have a sense of humor. The supercargo, also placed at an inconvenient distance from her, was the only extraplanetarian. Since he seemed as bored as she was, she made a note to cultivate him as soon as possible.

The food served was dreadful, although from the appetites of the younger officers, it was evidently a feast. Killashandra could find nothing on the table that matched the items on Antona’s list and, with great difficulty, chewed and swallowed the unappealing stodge.

Dinner ended with everyone’s jumping to their feet and dedicating themselves to the further ambitions of Trundimoux System, against all natural obstacles and phenomena.

Killashandra managed to keep her expression composed during this unexpected outburst, especially when she realized that the younger subs were emotionally involved in their statement. When Killashandra considered that the system had managed to purchase a 78 as well as five black crystals, there might be some merit to unswerving dedication. The Guild inspired its members, too, but toward selfish rather than selfless aims. Well, the Trundimoux system’s results were very good, but it was from the Guild that they made their most prestigious purchases.

The table was cleared efficiently by the mess crew, and Killashandra watched them, there being nothing else to do. She could think of nothing to say in the silence and dreaded the prospect of more evenings like this.

“Would you care for a drink, Guild Member?” the supercargo asked as he appeared at her side.

“Why, yes, a Yarran beer would top off that meal,” she said with considerable irony, for beer would more likely bring the stodge back up.

To her utter amazement, the super gave her a bright smile.

“You”
—and his emphasis implied that she should have been the last person in the galaxy to have such tastes—“like Yarran beer?”

“Yes, it’s my favorite beverage. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course, I’ve heard of it,” and the man’s good-humored chuckle included those standing nearby. “I’m Yarran. Pendel’s the name, ma’am. You shall have a beaker from my own keg!” He signaled to one of the mess crew, mimed the careful pouring of beer into a beaker, and held up two fingers.

“Guild Member,” the captain said, stepping in, “we have wines—”

“Actually, Captain Francu, the Heptite Guild is partial to Yarran beer,” she said, knowing that she was irritating the man, yet unable to resist. “If I’m not depriving you, super—”

“Depriving me?” Lieutenant Supercargo Pendel was enormously amused by the suggestion. Nor did Killashandra miss his quick glance at Francu or Francu’s displeasure. “Not at all. My pleasure, I assure you. I keep telling ’em how satisfying a good Yarran brew is, far and above the ordinary since Terran malt and hops adapted well to our soil, but to each his own, I always say.”

The beakers were served, and Francu’s disapproval grew as Killashandra sipped with overt delight, though the beer was slightly flat, and she wondered how long it had been in Pendel’s keg. Perhaps the Guild brewmasters excelled Yarra’s own.

Pendel chattered away to her about different brews from different planets. Killashandra was relieved to find at least one traveled person among the Trundle belt-knockers. As long as they could stay on the subject of food and drink, Killashandra could give Pendel the impression of being widely-traveled herself.

“Do you remember much about Yarra?” he asked, as he signaled for another round of beer.

The phrasing of that question startled Killashandra, though she wasn’t certain why, since Pendel’s manner posed no threat.

“Of all the planets I have visited, it has the best brew and the most affable population. I wonder if the two are related? Have you been long away?”

“Too long and not long enough,” the Yarran replied, his jolly face lengthening into sadness. He sighed heavily, taking the fresh beaker and sipping at it slowly. How the man could become homesick on one glass of flat beer, Killashandra wasn’t certain. “However, it was of my choosing, and we Yarrans make the best of everything and everything of the best.”

Unexpectedly the harsh buzzer that announced watch changes penetrated the room. Killashandra took that opportunity to excuse herself from the mess.

Tac, for she’d seen Tic go off with the duty crew, guided Killashandra through the maze of companionways to her cell. As she slipped out of her caftan, she wondered how she was going to endure six days of this. And how was she going to replenish her symbiont on the
gundge
that was served? She was thinking that flat Yarran beer had a more soporific effect than the proper stuff as she fell asleep.

The next morning, it abruptly occurred to her that if Pendel had Yarran beer in his private supplies, he might have other delicacies, so she asked Tic, then on duty, to lead her to the supercargo’s office.

She felt crystal as she passed a sealed and barred hatch, grinning over the useless precautions. For who could steal crystal in space? Or were the Trundies afraid of crystal’s ensnaring the unwary? She experienced a start of amazement as Tic, after merely rapping on the panel, pulled it aside and entered. Presumably, Yarrans did not object to casual invasions of their privacy. Pendel was on his feet and full of genial welcomes in a cabin only slighter larger than hers. All three had to stand in close proximity to fit beside the bunk table. There were, however, a basket of fruit and a half-finished beaker of Yarran beer on the shelf.

“How may I serve you?” Pendel asked, smiling at Tic as he waved her out and closed the panel behind her.

Killashandra explained, giving him the list of Antona’s suggested diet.

“Ah, I can supply you with these and more. What they choose to eat”—and he waved his hand in the general direction of the control section amidships—“is well enough if one is not used to better. But you, Guild Member—”

“Killashandra, please . . .”

“Yes? Well, thank you, Killashandra. You have been accustomed to the very best that the galaxy has to offer—”

“So long as my immediate dietary requirements are met”—and Killashandra pointed to Antona’s list—“I will have no complaint.” She could not help eying the fruit basket wistfully.

“Haven’t you eaten yet this morning?” Appalled, Pendel deposited the basket in her hands, turning past her to haul back the panel and roaring at Tic, standing on guard. “Breakfast, immediately, and none of the glop.” He glanced at the list. “Rations twenty-three and forty-eight and a second issue of fruit.”

Consternation at having to relay such an order warred with fear in Tic’s face.

“Go on, girl. Go on. I’ve given the order!” Pendel assured her.

“And I have seconded it!” Killashandra added firmly. Then she bit into a red fruit to ease the gnawing in her belly.

Pendel slid the panel closed and smiled with anticipatory glee. “Of course, we’ll have Chasurt down in a pico . . .” The super rubbed his hands together. “Those rations are his. He’s the medic,” Pendel grimaced as he added, “with far more experience in space-freeze and laser burn. The rations contain just what your list specifies, high in trace minerals, potassium, calcium and such like.”

The food and the medic arrived at the same time. But for Pendel’s smooth intervention, Killashandra’s breakfast would have been confiscated from Tic’s nerveless hands by the irate Chasurt.

“Who gave orders to release
my
rations?” Chasurt, a stolidly built, blank-faced man of the late middle decades, reminded Killashandra of Maestro Valdi in his outraged indignation.

“I did!” said Pendel and Killashandra in chorus. Pendel took the tray from Tic’s shaking hands and smoothly transferred it to Killashandra, who, moving herself and Chasurt’s rations to the farthest corner of the cabin, left Pendel to impede Chasurt’s effort at retrieval.

Eating with a speed not entirely generated by hunger, Killashandra consumed the hot cereal and nutmeat compound. Pendel was trying to get Chasurt to examine Antona’s list, and Chasurt was demanding to know what he was to do if a real emergency were to occur, one in which sick people would need the rations that this—this—obviously healthy woman was devouring. The medic did not approve of Killashandra’s haste. That Pendel had the right to order such rations seemed to infuriate Chasurt even more, and by the time Killashandra had finished the second dish, she felt obliged to interfere.

“Lieutenant Chasurt—”

“Captain! Guild Member,” and, puce with the added insult, the man pointed to the rank emblem at his neck.

“All right, Captain.” Killashandra accorded him an apologetic inclination of her head, “Pendel is acting on my behalf, obeying my instructions, which were firmly impressed on me by Chief Medical Research Officer Antona of the Heptite Guild Ballybran. It was understood by my Guild Master and myself that my requirements would be met on this voyage. If I am physically unfit to complete the installations, all your efforts will have been an expensive waste, and your system still incommunicado. I am given to understand that the journey to your system is not a long one, so I cannot think that my modest dietary needs will seriously deplete the resources of a newly commissioned 78. Will they?”

Chasurt’s face had reflected several emotions as she spoke, and Killashandra, though not as adept as Lanzecki in reading body language, received the impression that Chasurt would have preferred the system to lose the interplanetary link. But that was an irrational premise, and she decided that Chasurt must be one of those officious people who must constantly be deferred to and flattered. She remembered Amon’s advice and realized its merit with this sort of personality.

“Not wishing to remind you, Captain Chasurt, that in the Federated Sentient Planets’ hierarchy, as a Guild Member traveling on Heptite Guild business, I outrank everyone on this ship, including Captain Francu, I will suggest that you check your data retrieval under Crystal Singers and be thus reassured in your dealings with me on this journey. Now, just pass me the fruit.”

Chasurt had intercepted that basket, delivered during Killashandra’s reply.

“Trace minerals are especially important for us,” she said, smoothly reaching out to take the basket. She had to secure it with a bit of a jerk. Chasurt was livid. Killashandra nodded pleasantly at Tic and dismissed her before closing the panel on Chasurt’s fury.

Pendel raised his Yarran beer in salute to Killashandra as he leaned against the wall.

“We’ll have the captain next, you know.”

“You seem to manage them rather well,” Killashandra said between bites of the tangy redfruit.

“They can’t get rid of me,” Pendel chuckled, pressing the side of his nose and winking at her. “I’m employed by the Mining Consortium, not the Trundie Council. The MC is still keying the priorities. Oh, they’re not bad sorts for parochial chaps with metal on the mind. They’ll change. They’ll change now for sure.” Pendel swept his beaker from her to the sealed cabin where the crystal was secured.

“Do I have the suspicion that not all concerned wish to change?”

Pendel gave a laugh. “And when has that been news?”

A peculiar squawk was emitted by the communit, and Pendel winked at Killashandra.

“Captain here, super. What’s this about special rations being issued without consultation?”

“Captain Francu”—Pendel’s tone was a drawl, just short of insult—“I believe the orders read that Guild Member Ree’s requirements are to be met by the—”

“They told me she didn’t require anything special.”

“Guild Member Ree doesn’t require anything
special,
but as I’ve been telling you, the mess served on this ship isn’t universally nourishing or satisfying. Chasurt has more than enough in stores. I should know. I buy for him.”

There wasn’t an audible click at the end of the exchange, but the captain’s complaint had been dismissed. Killashandra regarded Pendel with more respect.

“Hard worker, that Francu. Runs a tight ship. Never lost a person. Just the sort of man to trust the newest ship to.” Pendel rubbed the side of his nose, his broad grin implying all the negative facets of Captain Francu that he did not voice.

“I appreciate your cooperation and support, Pendel, almost as much as the beer. One more favor, if it’s possible. Do I have to listen to all the ship’s business?” Another harsh buzz punctuated her request.

“Just leave it with me, Killashandra,” Pendel said comfortably. “I’ll send round some handy rations for you in the meantime.” He gestured apologetically at the plates and chips piled on the printouts on his desk, and she took the hint. She also took the second bowl of fruit, winking at Pendel as she left.

The man contrived well and shortly after Tic led her back to her dinky cabin, the unnerving sounds of command were muted.

Tic arrived, tapping politely and waiting for Killashandra’s acknowledgment, with parcels of plain plastic in both hands. One was a variety of the special rations, the other an array of food. Tic kept her eyes averted from that luxury, but Killashandra perceived that any generosity from her would be ill advised. She thanked Tic and dismissed her until evening mess. Killashandra knew that she had to put in at least one appearance a day and sighed at the thought of such boredom. While she munched on Chasurt’s prized packages, she occupied herself by studying the deck plan of the 78. Even as she watched, certain sections were updated and changed for purposes that escaped her. Was this to be a cargo ship, a passenger liner, or a training vessel? Its specifications meant nothing to her, but the length of the numericals was impressive.

She was duly escorted to the officers’ mess, Chasurt and Francu mercifully absent, so she chatted with Tallaf, an agreeable enough young man without his captain’s presence to inhibit him, though when he got flustered, his neck had the tendency to puff out. He admitted to being planet-bred, educated for his duties as executive in theoretics rather than the practical. Most of the other officers and crew members were space or station born. His tone was a shade wistful, as if he regretted the difference between himself and his shipmates.