Interstellar Rock Star

by Edward Willett

  I grabbed Meta and hurried her away, ducking into a short hallway leading to a cleaning-supply room. Meta shook free and backed away, staring at me. “You don’t believe that, do you?” I cried. “I didn’t kill Roy. And I’m not a flash-user, either!” Or wasn’t, I thought bitterly. “Meta, Marcel came to warn me. He told me to get away before Qualls came—but I didn’t make it. Qualls knew I was trying to run, he must have guessed Marcel had warned me, and—” I shook my head at the sick cleverness of it all. “He killed Marcel, made me the suspect, and told them I’d run off, all the while thinking I was locked in my dressing room. He would have smuggled me off to Hydra and no one would have ever known what had happened to me. I would have just dropped out of sight. But you messed things up for him by helping me to get out for real.” I looked at the credit chip in my hand. “As soon as I use this, the ‘forcers will know. They’ll find me in minutes.”

  “Let them!” Meta cried. “Tell them the truth. Turn yourself in. At least you’ll be in their hands and not Qualls’s.”

  It made sense, now I knew the ‘forcers weren’t working for Qualls—though it was a hard pill to swallow for an old streetslug. “You’re right. But first you’re getting out of here.”

  Meta nodded. “I think I’m ready to go home now,” she said in a small voice. “In your Single, street life seemed so—romantic—”

  “I know,” I said. “And it’s not. It’s dirty and hard and sometimes very short. And you’ve only seen the surface, Meta. You haven’t seen the worst parts of this city, or the worst people.”

  “Except Qualls.”

  “Except Qualls. He’s as bad as they come.” I could hear the newsvid blaring my story again. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I found a bank of vidscreens displaying departures to the Pleasure Planets; there was one late that evening. I memorized the ship number and headed for the appropriate ticket counter.

  I’d lost my edge, living as Andy Nebula, or I would have seen them leaning against the mirrored pillars long before I did. I grabbed Meta’s arm again. “Stand very still.”

  Like one of my flash-induced hallucinations, a young man in mirrorcloth materialized in front of me. He was thinner, and his eyes had begun to gray, but his smile was as nasty as ever. “Hey, flashmates,” he drawled. “Scan who’s back in our orbit.”

  Meta drew closer to me. “Who—”

  “They label me Dry Ice, little X-zome. Maybe this streetslime you’re with has told you about me.”

  “Kit—”

  I squeezed her hand reassuringly, and wished someone would do the same for me. “What’s powering, Dry Ice?” I didn’t have to turn around to know the rest of the Ice Boys were surrounding me.

  “You’ve been playing with radwaste, gladeye. High-level. Our flashman says we take you, he’ll power us all for a month.” Dry Ice shrugged. “So we take you, gladeye. Or is that Mr. Nebula?”

  He hadn’t drawn his knife; he was counting on his mates. They were all behind me, blocking the way to the exits—

  —to the legal exits.

  “No need to call me Mr. Nebula, gladeye,” I told Dry Ice. “I’m only Andy Nebula when I’m dancing. Like—so!”

  The move was the climax of my Single, the high spinning leap that ended with a snap of my foot into the chest of the dancebot that played the leader of the enemy flashgang. Every time I’d performed it I’d imagined Dry Ice on the receiving end. His eyes barely had time to widen before my foot smashed into him and sent him flying back, tumbling over the stacked luggage of a man who turned on him angrily, then thought better of it as Dry Ice’s monomolecular-edged blade hissed from its sheath.

  By that time, though, I had grabbed Meta and, with the Ice Boys in pursuit, dashed straight toward the ticket desk. We smashed through the line in a flurry of screams, scrambled madly over the desk itself, scattering datadiscs, charged through the door beyond into another room, and crashed through the door at the back of that into the huge cargo-sorting facility.

  To our left I saw daylight, and like a trapped animal I headed for it instinctively, leaping over conveyor belts, almost dragging Meta. Seconds later we burst through a door into the street, running for our lives.

  Behind us came the Ice Boys.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We didn’t have much head start, and we couldn’t hope to outrun them. Still, we ran, crashing into and over pedestrians who cursed at us, then saw the Ice Boys coming and scrambled out of the way. Instinctively I headed for my home territory, the dozen or so square blocks I knew the best. But I couldn’t duck into any of my hidey-holes with the Ice Boys breathing down my neck.

  “I—can’t—” Meta panted.

  “You’ve got to.” Dry Ice needed me in good shape to hand over to Qualls, but he probably had no orders at all about Meta. “Just—a little further.”

  I was hoping for a miracle—and I got it. We pounded around a corner and toward Fat Sloan’s. For a few seconds we were out of sight of the Ice Boys, but Fat Sloan’s would be no refuge—

  Except there stood Fat Sloan himself, filling the doorway. “Quick, Kit, in here,” he said, and stepped aside.

  Any port in a storm, I thought, and ducked through, Meta close behind. The moment we were in the dingy lobby, Sloan moved back into the doorway, effectively blocking it. I pushed Meta down behind the counter and crouched beside her.

  Just in time. “You see streetslime flowing by here, gladeye?” Dry Ice demanded of Sloan.

  “A boy and a girl just passed. Turned left at the corner.”

  “More thrust, flashmates!” Dry Ice shouted. Footsteps clattered away.

  I stayed put, the handle of a floor safe digging into my knee, until Fat Sloan loomed over us. “They’re gone.”

  “Gratitudes, gladeye.” I helped Meta up. “Our friend here is labeled Fa—Sloan,” I told her.

  “My pleasure,” said Sloan, holding out one greasy hand.

  Meta accepted it gingerly and let go almost at once. “Thank you for hiding us, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Anything for an old friend like Kit.”

  “How did you know we were running this way?” I asked him.

  “This.” He tapped a keypad on the desk and four tiny vidscreens flickered to life, showing the streets outside. On one of them the Ice Boys fanned out down a garbage-strewn alley. “I like to see trouble before it gets here.” He grinned, a frightening sight. “Besides, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your Hydra friend told me you would be here last night. He seemed most perturbed when you didn’t show up.”

  Rain? “Is he still here?” Was this a trap?

  “No. He left early this morning. “ Sloan pulled a keychip out of a drawer. “Here. The room’s free for tonight. “

  “What if Dry Ice comes back? He may want to search the place.”

  Sloan pulled something else out of the drawer, something black, with a handle and a shiny black barrel. “He won’t.”

  I nodded, and took the keychip. “This way, “ I said to Meta.

  As we reached the stairs, Sloan called, “Wait!” When I turned back he tossed four mealpacs my way. “On the house.”

  “Thanks, Sloan.” I led Meta to the room—the same room I had shared with Rain. I wondered if Sloan remembered that.

  Meta sat on the bed—or maybe “collapsed” would be better. “I don’t like your world. And I don’t like your friends.”

  “I don’t like it either. And I don’t have any friends here.” I opened one of the mealpacs. The smell reminded me just how hungry I really was, and brought Meta upright again, swallowing. I handed her the one I’d opened and took another for myself.

  “Sloan—” she began as she reached for her spoon.

  “He’s not my friend. He never offered me a free room in the old days when I needed it just as bad, that’s for sure.” I dug into the steaming stew inside the pac.

  “Then why—?”

  “I don’t know.” And I don’t like it
, I thought, but all I could really think about was the food. I hadn’t had anything to eat since before the concert, and a lot had happened since then.

  Meta, too, remained silent as we ate, but I could tell she was thinking over what I’d said. “Maybe he’s planning to call the ‘forcers,” she said at last.

  I snorted. “Sloan? He’d sooner go jogging.”

  Meta stared at me for a minute, then giggled, the sound taking me back to the day she’d sneaked into my dressing room. My last mouthful lost its taste. Look what being my fan had gotten her into. “That I’d like to see,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t. Could cause earthquakes.”

  That set her off again.

  “And what if he fell in the river? Floods!”

  It was good to hear her laugh, but I couldn’t keep it up. For one thing, I ran out of Sloan jokes. For another, I was too busy wondering what Sloan was really up to. Would he try to sell us to the Ice Boys? No—he hated flashgangs. But—

  “That’s it,” I said. “He’s planning to sell us out to Qualls.”

  Meta started up. “Then hadn’t we better—”

  “He won’t do it right away,” I said, thinking out loud. “He thinks we’re safely tucked away, so he won’t be in a hurry. And he won’t tell Qualls we’re here, or he might have to face the Ice Boys in earnest. He’ll be calling Qualls, planning a meeting, setting up a place to hand us over. We’ve got until morning.”

  Meta sighed and sat back again, pushing the hair off her face with both hands. “Good. I don’t think I could run another step.”

  “And, of course,” I went on, “we won’t be here.”

  She groaned. “More running? More hiding in basements? Anyone you meet could recognize you. Sooner or later, he’ll catch you.”

  “If I’m still on the planet.”

  “If you try to buy passage with your credit chip, they’ll catch you. You said so yourself.”

  “Who said anything about buying passage?” I pointed at her. “As you should know, there are other ways to get off a planet.”

  “Stow away?” Meta gaped at me, then grinned. “I like it!”

  “I thought you would.” I yawned. “If I were you, I’d get some sleep. In fact, I’m not you, and I’m going to get some sleep anyway.” I sat down in the chair and leaned back, stretching out my legs. “We’ll have to sneak out in the middle of the night...”

  “I could use a nap,” Meta admitted. She started to lie back, hesitated, leaned over and sniffed the dingy covers, then shrugged and stretched out. Within seconds her even breathing and the slow rise and fall of her chest told me she slept.

  I sat up straight again. I’d lied; I couldn’t sleep. Jittery energy filled me, along with a growing hunger I knew eating couldn’t cure, a hunger like a deep itch that couldn’t be scratched. Flashwish. And it was just beginning.

  All my plans would be useless if I couldn’t control it. It could make me do something stupid or reckless. What I feared most was that it would make me beg Sloan for flash. I knew he sold it. All I had to do was ask and he’d open up that little safe and take out a vial filled with small green wafers...

  Already the idea tempted my body, teased my mind. I got to my feet and started pacing. Ignore it, I told myself. Plan how you’re going to stow away.

  Meta had shown me the easiest way—sneak into a cargo module. But we’d have to be very careful. Not all modules were pressurized, and neither were some holds. At least the destination didn’t matter—anywhere off Murdoch IV would suit me, anywhere I could talk freely to the authorities and the media about what Qualls had been up to.

  I found myself almost running from wall to wall. I forced myself to slow, then to sit down; then I hopped up again and went down the hallway to the bathroom that served the whole floor. I thought a shower might make me feel better.

  It didn’t. I came back to the room wet, clean—and hurting. Meta half-woke as I came in, but rolled over and went immediately back to sleep again. I sat down and clenched my fists and resolved not to move from that chair, no matter how bad it got.

  It was a resolution I couldn’t keep. I dozed, but then woke with a gasp, heart racing, body soaked in sweat. Pain stabbed my right elbow, skewered my left knee. I moaned. Meta mumbled something, then sat up, blinking sleepily, and said, “Kit...?”

  “Go back to sleep,” I said—but then couldn’t suppress a grunt as agony flared in my left wrist. Meta sat up straighter.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Flash—”

  She pushed herself away from me. “You said it was gone!”

  I laughed, a little wildly. “Oh, it’s gone, all right. That’s the problem.” I doubled over as pain bludgeoned me in the stomach. “This,” I gasped, “is withdrawal.”

  Meta pulled her knees up against her chest. “What can I do?”

  I’d had no idea it would be this bad. And it had only begun. I couldn’t beat it; I knew that now. Not on my own.

  “Find something—to tie me up with,” I gasped out. “Tie me to the chair. Don’t let me up—whatever happens. Unh!”

  “Kit, I can’t—”

  “Do it!” I screamed. She stared at me, eyes wide, then scrambled off the bed, stripped the sheet from it and tore four long strips from it, while I hunched over in the chair, rocking with pain. Tears streamed down my face. “Hurry!”

  “I’m hurrying!” She grabbed my arms and lashed each one to the chair, did the same with my legs, then backed away from me again as though I might turn into something horrible.

  I might. “You don’t have to watch—” My throat squeezed closed, choking off the words.

  “I can’t—I won’t leave you!”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Neither will you!”

  She was right.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The pain grew until I couldn’t stand it—and then grew more. It flayed the skin from my body and the flesh from my bones, poured acid through my veins, drove slivers of ice into my eyes, filled my throat with ground glass. And all the time I knew exactly what I needed to end the agony: one little wafer, one insignificant, unimportant wafer, one tiny dose of flash.

  I writhed and screamed, blood and spittle dribbling down my chin. I begged Meta until I was hoarse, “Please, let me up! I’ve got to find—I have to have—” But Meta buried her face in the pillow, her hands over her ears.

  After what seemed days, but was probably less than an hour, Fat Sloan opened the door. Adrenaline surged through me. “Sloan, you can get me flash, I know you can, Sloan, please, please!”

  Meta’s head jerked up. “No!”

  Sloan ignored her and came over to me. “Well,” he said. “So little Kit, always so afraid of flashmen, is a flashman himself.”

  “Sloan...” I moaned. “Help me...”

  “Of course, gladeye.” Sloan drew a glass tube out of his shirt pocket and shook a little green wafer into his palm.

  I trembled and drooled like a starving mutt. “Thank you, Sloan,” I whispered, like a prayer. “Thank you, thank you—”

  “Don’t mention it.” Sloan delicately took the wafer between his grimy thumb and forefinger and leaned forward. “Open wide—”

  I opened my mouth, tongue extended, panting in short little gasps, waiting for the blessed touch of the wafer—

  And Meta screamed “Stop!” and threw herself between us. The wafer spun away, smashing to green dust against the wall.

  Sloan’s smile turned to snarl. “I’m just giving him what he wants—what they all want!” he spat. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Meta, get out of his way!”

  She ignored me. “I won’t let you do it!”

  Sloan laughed, a nasty sound. “I don’t think you can stop me.” He stepped forward again, a moving mountain of flesh.

  But Meta held her ground. “I won’t let you,” she repeated—and held up the knife I’d put in my bag. She handled it clumsily, but it was very long and very sharp
, and Sloan stopped. The sight of it filled me with rage. How dare she use my knife to stop Sloan from giving me what I needed? Who’d asked her to interfere?

  Sloan snorted. “Have it your way, little girl. But don’t expect him to thank you for it.” He went out, slamming the door.

  Meta turned toward me with a grin—and I spat at her and called her every obscene name I had learned on the street. “I’ll kill you!” I screamed. “You’re protein, you filthy little witch! I’ll take that knife and—” I went into graphic detail, punctuated by my own moans and gasps when pain crashed over me.

  My words drove Meta back against the wall, her knees pulled up tight, but she didn’t hide her face this time—she just stared at me, rocking back and forth, tears running down her cheeks.

  A century later the pain ebbed, and consciousness with it.

  I woke in darkness. Every bone and muscle ached, sandpaper lined my throat, and I stank. But I could think clearly again.

  Meta slept, curled up on the bed like a cat, a faint glitter of reflected light from the tavern holosign across the road showing where the knife still lay by her outstretched hand. I shook my head. Little Meta, standing up to Fat Sloan on my account. Now that’s what I call a fan. I opened my mouth and croaked, “Meta.” She didn’t stir. “Meta, wake up!”

  “Mmmm?” She rolled over, then suddenly sat up and stared at me, her eyes wide and white in the darkness. “Kit?”

  “Yes. It’s over. You can let me go.”

  She didn’t move. “How can I be sure?” she whispered.

  I opened my mouth to say, don’t be silly, you can be sure because I’m telling you—but the words stuck in my throat. I had to swallow hard before I could speak. “I’m sorry, Meta. I’m so sorry.” Remembering the names I had called her, I wanted to sink through the floor. “That wasn’t me talking—it was the flash.”

  “You said you’d kill me.”

  “Meta, it’s late, and we’ve got to get out of here tonight, before Sloan hands us over to Qualls. If you don’t untie me, they’ll catch me—and they’ll put me back on flash again first thing. And then all this will have been for nothing.”