The wrecker didn't have far to go for the sled plowed into the hills forty klicks from the complex. The comtech could get no response from the sled's pilot.
"Bloody fool waited too long," the flight officer said, nervously slapping his fingers against his thigh. "Warned him when he went out, not to wait too long. But they never listen. He repeated variations of those sentiments becoming more agitated as the wrecker neared the sled and the damage was visible.
The wrecker pilot set his craft down four long strides from the Singer's sled.
“You others get the crystal,” the flight officer shouted as he plunged toward the crumbled bow of the sled, which was half buried in loose dirt.
As Killashandra obeyed his order, she glanced back on the sled's path. She could see, in the distance, two other slide marks before the crashing sled had bounced to a stop.
The storage compartment had withstood impact. Killashandra watched with interest as the three men released the nearest hatch. As soon as they emerged with cartons, she darted in. Then she heard the moans of the injured Crystal Singer and the drone of curses from the flight officer and medic attending him.
The moment she touched the nearest carton, she forgot the injured man, for a shock, mild but definite, ran along her bones from head to heel to head. She gripped the carrier firmly, but the sensation dissipated.
“Move along. Gotta get that guy back to the infirmary,” she was told by returning crewmen.
She picked the carton up, minding her steps, ignoring the exhortation of the crewmen who passed her out. She crouched by the carton as the cocoon of the injured Singer was deftly angled into the wrecker.
During the short trip back to the complex, she wondered why there was such a fuss. Surely the symbiont would repair the man's injuries, given the time to do so. She supposed that the symbiont relieved pain. Borella hadn't appeared uncomfortable with her awful thigh wound, and Concera, given to complaints, had said nothing about pain in her regenerating fingers.
As soon as the wrecker landed, the Singer was hurried to waiting meditechs. Hugging the carton that she devoutly hoped contained black crystal, Killashandra walked straight through the storage area into the sorting room. She had no problem finding Enthor, for the man almost bumped into her.
“Enthor,” she said, planting herself and pushing the carton at him, “I think this has black crystal.”
"Black crystal?" Enthor was startled; he blinked and peered frowningly at her. "Oh, it's you. You?" His lensed eyes widened in surprise. "You? What are you doing here?" He half turned in the direction of the infirmary and then up to the recruits' level. "No one's been cutting black crystal – "
“Keborgen might have been. He crashed. This is from his sled.” She gave the carton an urgent shove against his chest. “The flight officer said he had been out to cut blacks.”
Out of habit, Enthor took hold of the carton, quite unable to assimilate either her explanation or her sudden appearance. Killashandra was impatient with Enthor's hesitation. She did not want to admit to the contact shock she had felt in Keborgen's sled. Deftly, she propelled Enthor at his table, and though still perplexed, he presented the ident to the scan. His hands hovered briefly but dropped away as he twisted toward Killashandra.
“Go on,” she said, annoyed by his dithering. “Look at them.”
“I know what they are. How did you?” Enthor's indecision was gone, and he stared, almost accusingly, into her eyes.
“I felt them. Open it. What did Keborgen cut?”
His unearthly eyes still on hers, Enthor opened the box and lifted out a crystal. Killashandra caught her breath at the sight of the dull, irregular 15 centimeter segment. Consciously, she had to make her lungs expel air as Enthor reverently unpacked two additional pieces that fit against the first.
“He cut well,” Enthor said, scrutinizing the trio keenly. “He cut very well. Just missing flaw. That would account for the shapes.”
“He has cut his last,” the deep voice of the Guild Master said.
Startled, Killashandra whirled and realized that Lanzecki must have arrived moments before. He nodded to her and then beckoned to someone in the storage area.
“Bring the rest of Keborgen's cut.”
“Is there more black in it?” Enthor asked Killashandra as he felt carefully about in the plaspacking.
Killashandra was vibrantly aware of Lanzecki's intense gaze.
“In that box or the cargo?”
“Either,” Lanzecki said, his eyes flickering at her attempt to temporize.
“Not in the box,” she said even as she ran her hand along the plasfoam side. She swallowed nervously, glancing sideways at Lanzecki's imposing figure. His clothing, which she had once thought dull, glinted in a richness of thread and subtle design very much in keeping with his rank. She swallowed a second time as he gave a brief nod of his head and the six cartons from Keborgen's sled were deposited on Enthor's table.
“Any more black crystal?” Enthor asked.
She swallowed a third time, remembered that the habit had irritated her in Shillawn, and ran her hands over the cartons. She frowned, for a curious prickle rippled across her palms.
“Nothing like the first one,” she said, puzzled.
Enthor raised his eyebrows, and she could only have imagined his eyes twinkling. He opened a box at random and removed, carefully, a handful of cloudy slivers, displaying them to Lanzecki and Killashandra. The other boxes held similar slivers.
“Did he cut the triad first or last?” Lanzecki spoke softly as he picked up a finger-long splinter, examining its irregularities.
“He didn't say?” Enthor ventured quietly.
Lanzecki's sigh and the brief movement of his head answered that question.
"I thought the precious symbiont healed – " Killashandra blurted out before she knew she was going to speak.
Lanzecki's eyes halted her outburst.
«The symbiont has few limitations: deliberate and constant abuse is one. The age of its host is another. Add the third factor – Keborgen stayed too long in the range, despite storm warnings.» He turned back to look at the three pieces of black crystal on the weighplate and at the credit valuation blinking on the display.
If Keborgen was dead, who inherited the credit? She jumped as Lanzecki spoke again.
“So, Killashandra Ree, you are sensitive to the blacks, and you have enjoyed a Milekey transition.”
Killashandra could not avoid the Guild Master's disconcerting appraisal. He seemed neither as remote nor detached as he had the day she had; arrived at Shankill with Carrik. His eyes, especially, were intensely alive. A nearly imperceptible upward movement of his lips brought her restless gaze to his mouth. Wide, well-shaped lips evidently reflected his thoughts more than eye, face, or body. Did she amuse him? No, probably not. The Guild Master was not known for his humor; he was held in great respect and some awe by men and women who were awed by little and respected nothing but credit. She felt her shoulders and back stiffen in automatic reaction to the flick of amusement.
“Thank you, Killashandra Ree, for your prompt discovery of that triad,” Lanzecki said with a slight inclination of his head that reinforced his gratitude. Then he turned and was gone, as quickly as he had arrived.
Exhaling, Killashandra leaned against Enthor's table.
“Always good to know black when it's near you.” Enthor paused as he gingerly unpacked shards. He blinked his eyes to focus on the weight display. “Trouble is finding it in the first place.”