Meta said a word that surprised me. Milly replied primly, “My programming requires me to warn you, Meta, that the word just uttered is not considered acceptable vocabulary by your parents.”
“Sorry. Look, take a message for me, will you—”
“Thirty seconds to jump-off,” a different computer said.
“You’ll have to hurry,” Hosking warned Meta.
“Recording,” said Milly.
“Mom, Dad, I’m all right, but I won’t be home for about a week,” Meta said rapidly. “I met Andy Nebula and he’s really nice. He asked me to come with him to his next concert, and I was so excited I said yes. But I’ll come back right afterward. Be sure to tell Bekka and Roo! ‘Bye!”
“Wait a minute—” I began, but “Jump-off in ten—nine—eight...” said the ship, and “Contact broken,” said Hosking, and then came the twisting-bent-sideways-turned-inside-out disorientation of the translation into alternity, and there was nothing else to be done about it.
“Wow!” said Meta. “What a ride!”
I groaned and massaged the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I muttered. “What a ride.”
“Mr. Nebula,” said the Second Mate’s voice over the ship’s intercom, her tone dangerously sweet. “Please report to the Passenger Lounge.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Qualls met us in the lounge. “Wonderful,” he said, surveying Meta as she stared eagerly around. “Just wonderful. We’ll be lucky if the police aren’t waiting for us next planetfall.”
That brought Meta’s head around. “Oh, no,” she said. “I sent a message to my parents.”
“I reviewed your ‘message.’ Why didn’t you tell the truth?”
Meta looked abashed—but only a little. “I’m sorry. I guess I wanted to impress them—and my friends.”
“Well, you’re going to have to send another message when we slip back into realspace. I’m afraid you’re going to be gone longer than a week.”
“What?” said Meta, and “Why?” I echoed.
“There’s been a change of plans.”
“A change of plans?” I felt a chill. “Ticket sales—?”
“Next to nothing. We’ve canceled all the remaining tour dates except the final one, and we’re moving it forward.”
“But you said Mr. Karpov agreed to at least four more—”
“This change is my idea.”
“Your idea?” I felt my face flush. “You canceled three of my performances without even asking me?”
“I did ask you.”
“When?”
“Just a couple of hours ago, right here. You agreed to a long-term arrangement on Hydra, remember?”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“It starts before the tour would have been over. I tried to talk The Dealer into pushing the opening back, but he was adamant. I assumed you would consider holding onto this post-tour deal more important than playing a couple of dates before half-empty houses, but if you’d like I can probably still cancel—”
“No.” I took a deep breath. “No, of course not.” I tried on a grin; it fit pretty well. “All’s optimal, gladeye.”
Qualls grimaced.
Meta had been following this conversation like a spectator at a tri-ball match. “But what about me?”
“What about you?” Qualls snapped, and this time I didn’t feel much like standing up for her. She’d been nothing but trouble from the minute she’d sneaked into my dressing room, and she’d as much as told her parents I’d seduced her. I wondered if I could sue her for defamation of character.
Oh, well—maybe a good mudsplatter from the sleazeoids would boost the crowd at my last show.
“You can send another message next time we’re between jump-offs,” Qualls told Meta, “but we’re not landing and you won’t be able to get a ship until we reach the closing venue of the tour.”
“Where’s that?”
“Kit’s home town.”
I stared at Qualls. “Fistfight City? You never said—”
“You never asked.”
Some excuse, but I let it go. So, I was going to return to Fistfight City as the hometown-boy-made good. I hoped I’d draw a crowd. I hoped the Ice Boys came—however many of them flash had left alive. However many still had brain enough to remember me.
Any worry Meta had about the extra time away from home vanished in sudden excitement. “But that’s great!” she said, turning to me with wide eyes. “You can show me all those places in your bio—the store where the owner gave you your stringsynth because he could tell you really loved music, the park where you sang your first song and the kind old lady gave you—”
“Yeah, right,” I said. As I’ve mentioned, my official bio was worth considerably less than the chip it was stored on. I guess you could say that a store owner had “given” me the stringsynth, since I certainly didn’t pay for it, but he hadn’t been aware of his generosity, being home in bed at the time. “I doubt you’re going to be there long enough.”
“Take her to any of the empty guest quarters,” Qualls said.
I started to ask why a crewman couldn’t do that, but Qualls had turned his back on us. Irritably, I led Meta out.
More holovids of former Singles lined the corridor running to the guest quarters. Meta listed them happily as we passed. “That’s Flashpoint Charlie, and there’s The Toneman, and that’s Rubberneck, and—oh, look, that’s Paris Paradise!”
I stopped dead. “Paris Paradise? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Meta said, in a don’t-be-silly tone. “I know all the Singles.”
I hurried back to the holo. “What’s wrong?” Meta asked.
The sound came up as I stopped by the alcove. “A planet can be paradise/a comet can be paradise/a twirling asteroid can be a paradise for two/if the two are you and me together/here today and there forever...” I winced but leaned closer, trying to get a clear look at the little twirling figure’s face, but the resolution wasn’t good enough. Besides, it couldn’t be. The old flashman had been in his fifties. Paris Paradise the Sensation Single couldn’t be more than twenty-one by now, because all Singles had to be teenagers. Just because he had claimed to be Paris Paradise...anybody could claim to be anybody. Before he met me he probably told half a dozen other people he was Andy Nebula.
But still, that name, and that warning about someone or something getting him, getting her, getting me, too...I didn’t like it. If something like that had happened on the street, I would have lifted, fast. That’s the way you find out about threats on the street—garbled whispers and half-heard rumors. It doesn’t pay to wait for proof that a flashgang is taking over the burned-out building where you’ve been flopping or that the meatmen are stocking up. If the street is tense, you lift—if you can. I’d always been able to, because I fed myself with my stringsynth. But this time I couldn’t.
On the other hand, this wasn’t the street.
“Have you met him?” asked Meta.
“No. I mean, I thought maybe I did—but I guess I was wrong.” I straightened and strode firmly on down the corridor. “Let’s get you settled so I can get some sleep.”
Meta’s new quarters weren’t much further. I showed her how to key the lockpad to her handprint, and she opened the door and stepped inside. The lights came up, revealing a smaller version of my own dressing room—sleeping area, sitting room, bathroom. No kitchen like mine had, but on the other hand, the furnishings were far more ornate, because this cabin didn’t get transported to and from the ship. Meta bounced on the bed, then grinned at me. “This is great! I’m glad I won’t be able to go home for a month. This has all worked out so much better than I expected. It really is just like your song, you know?”
“It’s not my song,” I snapped. “It was written for me by a computer. You’ve never heard my music, unless you used to hang out on street corners in Fistfight City.”
“Then why don’t you play some for me?”
“No. It’s late, I’m t
ired, and I’ve got a lot to think about. Good night.”
“Tomorrow?” Meta called after me as I went out the door.
I didn’t reply.
On the way back to my dressing room I studied the holovids I passed. Who had all these kids been, really? Had any of them dreamed of being more than a Sensation Single? Had any of them made it? Sure, there was Pyotr, but he’d been only the second or third Single, almost twenty years ago. Since then at least fifty had come and gone—maybe more, since some only lasted a couple of months. But aside from Pyotr and the one that had been murdered—StarMaid, that was her name—I knew nothing about any of them.
Time to find out, then. I resolved to do some extensive digging in the computer.
Tomorrow. Right now, all I was looking for was sleep.
Fifteen minutes later, in my dressing room (and after a quick check under the bed—well, you never know), I found it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As usual, in the morning all the vague fears of the night before seemed foolish. Oh, I still intended to research the fates of my predecessors, but it didn’t seem nearly as urgent. Besides, we were two weeks from Fistfight City. Plenty of time.
Plenty of time for Meta to drive me crazy, too, I thought. I ate breakfast alone in my room, but I was only halfway through my poached smokebird when Meta knocked. (Somehow I knew it was her even before I checked the security monitor.) At least she knocked this time, I thought. I cinched up my robe and let her in.
She bustled in with an amount of energy I found disgusting at that time of shipday. “Good morning!” she chirped. “Why, you’re not even dressed yet, sleepy-head.”
“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” I said, and went back to my breakfast tray.
“Mmmm, that looks good. Better than what I had.” She sat down beside me on the bed. “So, what are we going to do today?”
“We?” I picked up my glass and drained my orange juice at a gulp. “Look, Meta, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a professional entertainer. I’ve got work to do. I can’t be—”
“You mean you’ll be rehearsing, and stuff like that?”
Actually, I seldom rehearsed any more, but if it would keep her off my back—”Yeah, stuff like that.”
“I’ll watch!”
“You can’t. It’s—a closed rehearsal.” I shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.” Although I’d just made up that one. “Can’t have the public seeing Andy Nebula flubbing a dance step.”
“Can’t have the public seeing Andy Nebula in his bathrobe, either,” Meta pointed out, “but...”
Another knock rescued me from having to respond. “What is this, Earth Central Spaceport?” I stamped over to the door and opened it to discover one of the Sensation Single Inc. employees who always seemed interchangeable to me, like glowtubes.
“Sorry to interrupt, Andy...” The young man’s eyes slipped to Meta, sitting on the bed, then back to me. “...but Mr. Qualls and Mr. Marcel need to see you in the lounge as soon as convenient.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I shut the door in his face and turned back to Meta. “You heard. I have to get dressed...”
“Later, then...you can give me the grand tour!” She swept out.
“Not if I can avoid it,” I said to the closed door.
To my astonishment, I really did have to rehearse. In fact, for the rest of the journey Qualls and Marcel worked me harder than they had since I’d started. I hardly saw Meta at all, but she didn’t seem to mind—as far as I could tell, everyone on board loved her, even the Second Mate, whom I surprised giving her a tour of the hold as I came off the stage one afternoon. Meta waved gaily to me; the Second Mate gave me a look as cold as a cryofreezer, as though daring me comment. I didn’t.
“But why do I have to rehearse so much?” I complained to Marcel a day or two later. “I could sing and dance this deadhead Single in my sleep!”
“Take it up with Qualls,” Marcel grunted, heaving a misplaced fogmaker back into position. “I just run the stage.”
I stamped off determined to do exactly that. This was crazy! I only had to perform this drivel once more, then I’d be performing my own music on Hydra. That was what I should be rehearsing.
I found Qualls in the Lounge with— spacewaste! Nobody had told me The Dealer was still aboard. Time to haul out my “home babble” again. “Hey, gladeyes! Mr. Dealer, old octofriend. Thought you lifted back on Carstair’s Folly.”
Three of The Dealer’s eyes twisted around to stare at me. “I have business in Fistfight City,” his neuter voice said. “Mr. Qualls was good enough to offer me passage.”
“We’re rather busy—” Qualls said irritably, but I had plenty of irritation of my own; I slid onto a stool beside The Dealer.
“Well, I’d say it’s high-prob business between you and Octoman here figures me.” I smiled at Qualls, who scowled.
“We are indeed discussing your future,” said The Dealer. “I was merely laying out for Mr. Qualls the details of your scheduled stay with us on my home world.”
“Orbital! My file on that’s definitely data-poor. What’s the high-accuracy bytestuff, Mr. Manager?”
“It’s not entirely settled,” Qualls said. “There are still a few points to finalize.”
“I’m linked!”
“Excuse us just a moment,” Qualls said to The Dealer. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the farthest corner of the lounge. “What are you trying to do?” he whisper-growled. “You don’t know how to deal with the Hydras. If you keep sticking your face into negotiations the whole thing could fall apart.”
“Then how about filling me in on what you’ve already decided?” I growled back. “Or is it too much to ask that I be told something about my own future?”
Qualls shot a glance at The Dealer, who was literally keeping one eye cocked at us. “All right, all right. But not now. Later. For now, get out of here.”
“Not just yet,” I said. “I came to find out why you’ve got me rehearsing night and day. I’ve only got to sing From the Street to the Stars once more, and you know I know it perfectly.”
“It’s got to be better than perfect in Fistfight City if you want to sign on with The Dealer.”
“But if I’m going to be doing my own music on Hydra—”
“It’s three weeks to Hydra. Plenty of time to rehearse then.”
“Is there a problem, Mr. Qualls?” called The Dealer.
“No!” Qualls said. As he turned his head, I saw sweat glistening on his forehead. “Just a technical matter—look, I told you, let Marcel handle it,” he said loudly to me, and pushed me toward the door.
This time I took the none-too-subtle hint, but I stopped outside. The Dealer had Qualls scared spitless. But why? An ordinary business deal—my future was on the line, not his—
Unless he had something special riding on this, too. His reputation, maybe. Vacuum, for all I knew he had a million-fed gambling debt. I should be flattered he thought I could make money for him.
Huh. I didn’t feel very flattered. I walked slowly back toward the hold, and paused again by the holo of Paris Paradise—not too near, since I didn’t want to activate his annoying song. I wondered if anybody would stop and listen to me when I was in a little alcove like that. “Were things this crazy when you were a Single?” I asked Paris. He just kept dancing.
I’d put it off long enough; it was time I followed up on my vow to find out what had happened to Paris—to all of them. If I could just get some time off from rehearsing...
In the end, two days from Fistfight City, an equipment malfunction gave me my chance. One of the holoprojectors blew a something-or-other, causing half of the flashgang I supposedly held harmless through the brilliance of my dancing to suddenly freeze in place. Holos or not, I still winced as, unable to stop, I whirled through eight of them. The synths switched off abruptly and Marcel’s creative curses echoed from the control booth. “Done for the day, Kit,” he said when he ran out of obscenities. “Richter, where the
vacuum did you—” his voice cut off.
I lifted before he could change his mind, and a few minutes later finally sat down at my computer terminal, where the first thing I discovered was a message from Meta. I quieted a pang of guilt at having ignored her. If she could charm the Second Mate she could obviously take care of herself.
“Hi, Andy,” her recorded image said.
“Kit!” I snapped. The recording ignored me, of course, but then, the real girl probably would have, too.
“Can’t seem to get more than a second or two with you, so I thought I’d leave this to let you know I messaged my parents at the last jump-off. Of course, they won’t get it until the capsule makes it out of alternity at Carstair’s Folly, but...anyway, I told them I was fine and that there’d been a change of plans and I’d be back even later than I thought, but not to worry because I was with you and having a wonderful time. I just wish I could see Bekka’s face...anyway, if you ever have some time when you’re not rehearsing, I hope we can do something together. All right? ‘Bye. And I don’t care if your tour is winding down, I still think Andy Nebula is the best Sensation Single ever!” Her picture went away, but it left me feeling guilty again. Here I did have some time off rehearsing, and I was planning to spend it with my computer.
Huh. So what? I didn’t owe her anything. She’d pushed herself on me. Besides, she’d rather make up stories about all the fun she’d had with Andy Nebula on this trip than face the dull reality. I cleared the screen and asked for current information on former Singles.
I drew the computer equivalent of a blank stare. There was no current information on any former Sensation Singles, except for old Pyotr and poor dead StarMaid. All the rest had dropped out of sight. For some, nothing existed except the official Sensation Single bio—and I knew how trustworthy that was. I did find out a few real names—Rubberneck was a kid called Kim Ng, for example, from an extremely out-of-the-way planet with the improbable name of Piggyback—but even that didn’t help much. Kim Ng had very little history before he became Rubberneck and none at all afterward. He just disappeared.
Interstellar Rock Star Page 5
