ANDY NEBULA: INTERSTELLAR ROCK STAR
By Edward Willett
CHAPTER ONE
Cold wind lashed my face; cold rain dribbled down my back. My fingers throbbed like I'd slammed them in a door, my toes squished in my waterlogged boots, my throat felt as rough and red as rusty iron and my nose was both stuffed up and dripping, but I kept playing my beat-up silver stringsynth and singing the best I could. My hat barely held enough soggy cash for a mug of bean stew, much less a bed in Fat Sloan's flophouse, and I didn't fancy a night on the streets in this weather.
But the few people who splashed by me on their way into the tube station had eyes only for the dry warmth promised by its flickering blue holosign, not for a skinny, ragged streetkid.
That did it. I broke off in the middle of a soulful, wailing note--it was threatening to turn into a cough, anyway--and flicked off the stringsynth. If I'd sunk to feeling sorry for myself it was time to lift. Feeling sorry for yourself is just another way of saying you think somebody else ought to be taking care of you. First thing I'd learned after I escaped the orphanage seven years before was that I was the only person I could trust to take care of me.
I fished the thin, dripping handful of feds out of my hat, counted them, and shook my head. Sometimes I couldn't even trust myself. Unless I could talk Sloan into a discount, it looked like I'd have to settle for a mug of stew and a night of shivering.
Lightning flashed, thunder quick-marched across the sky, the rain beat down even harder, and I decided to give Sloan the chance to be generous. None of the nearby hidey-holes I knew would be any good at all in this kind of weather--they were mostly under bridges or in burned-out basements, and I knew from experience that if they weren't flooded yet they soon would be. Besides, on a night like this the freespaces would be crawling with rats, both the kind that squeak and the kind that run around on two legs. I could wake up stripped naked and robbed blind--if I woke up at all. I knew that from experience, too.
I slapped on the shapeless mass my hat had become, then started down the street, but I stopped at the first corner and looked back, feeling a strange itch between my shoulder blades. Under the holosign stood a man in a long black weathercoat, the expensive kind that repels raindrops a full metre. "Couldn't be a 'forcer, not with that coat," I muttered, ducking out of sight. That wasn't a comfort. The Fistfight City police generally treated me all right; they'd only chase me away from a place when they got a complaint, and they wouldn't say anything when I went back a couple of weeks later. But lots of other people took an interest in kids on their own. I had my music, but a lot of kids had nothing but themselves, and they still had to eat.
Some were on the next street over. They stood in purple-lit doorways, watching for the occasional slow-moving wheeler, or talking to shadowy figures uncomfortably like the man in the weathercoat. As I splashed past one of the doorways a girl a year or two younger than me burst out and clutched my arm. "Please, you've got to help me, he'll kill me--"
I shrugged her off and walked faster. I had my own problems. Behind me I heard a man cursing, and the sound of a hand meeting flesh, then muffled sobs that broke off as a door slammed. Nobody else on the street took any notice.
They wouldn't pay any more attention if that guy in the weathercoat grabbed me, I thought then, and broke into a run, ducking into the next alley. Several twists and turns later I arrived at Fat Sloan's, out of breath and shivering. I pushed through the heavy front door into the sour-smelling warmth of the lobby. Only one man lay unconscious on the shiny lime-green couch; looked like a slow night.
Fat Sloan deserved his nickname. A mountainous bubble of bloated flesh, he must have moved off the stool behind the counter sometime, but I'd never seen it and found it hard to imagine. He smiled at me, yellowing teeth showing briefly between pendulous lips. "Young Kit! What a surprise."
"You know I berth here when it's hydrating, gladeye."
"Busy night. You want a room, you'll have to share it."
I held up my money. "I've got feds for a single." I didn't even have feds for a double, but he didn't have to know that yet. Maybe I could get him to knock down the price.
"Maybe, but I haven't got a single to give you."
"No flashman roomie for me, Sloan!"
"Kit!" Sloan looked shocked, and put one hand in the general vicinity of his heart. "Would I do that to you? This--fellow--is a perfectly respectable freespacer. He's just between ships at the moment. And I know he'll be happy to meet you."
I didn't like the sound of that. "No street-trade, Sloan."
"Would I even suggest such a thing? This is a legitimate establishment."
Sure it was. "So what's his interest?"
"He likes music, Kit. He said he wants to meet a musician."
Huh. I still didn't like it--but thunder rattled the door, and rain rattled against the window--and I'd always wanted to talk to a spacer, anyway. If I were ever going to escape this interstellar slimepit, I needed a space-friend. But I couldn't let Sloan know any of that, or I'd never talk his price down. "Still comes down to economics, Sloan. Fewer feds for a double."
He shrugged. "So sleep in the street."
"Come on, Sloan, flexibilize for your old gladeye."
He looked me over, then grunted. "All right. For you, ten percent off."
"Forty."
"Kit, synchronize with reality. It's raining. I'm a businessman--supply and demand. High demand right now, low supply. Fifteen percent."
"Thirty."
He shook his head. "No deal."
"Nominal with me. I'll REM in the street--and spread the data you're defunct." I turned toward the door.
Sloan laughed, a remarkably unpleasant sound. "All right, Kit. Tell you what--twenty-five percent off. Just for you."
"Orbital, gladeye." I turned back to the counter and paid him, then tossed a couple of extra feds his way. "And add a mealpac to the program." With the discount, I could actually afford to eat.
"Sure." Sloan passed a keychip and the mealpac across the stained countertop. "Room 206. Knock first. I told your roommate he'd probably be having company, but you don't want to surprise a freespacer. He might cut you in two and regret it later." He shrugged. "Or he might not even regret it."
"Worthless data, gladeye." As if I'd be stupid enough to burst in on any stranger. How did Sloan think I'd survived this long?
I turned to go, but Sloan wasn't finished. "Oh, one other thing, Kit."
"Yeah?"
"Someone was asking for you. Man in a weathercoat. Looked like a high-power meatman to me." He grinned. "Sleep well."
"Not after seeing those teeth," I shot at him as I climbed the stairs, but my gut clenched. I'd been approached by street-level meatmen before; I told them "no," and they lifted. But if one of the herd-owners had his eyes on me...and now that I thought about it, it seemed strange the guy in the weathercoat would be asking about me the same day this "spacer" came asking about musicians. I could almost feel the jaws of some hidden trap closing in on me as I reached the dim and grimy second-floor corridor.
I found room 206, then stopped, listening. There was plenty to hear: a man and a woman screaming obscenities from across the hall; the latest Sensation Single pounding from next door. I grimaced; I hated that pre-packaged fluff. But I could hear nothing from room 206. Was that a good sign or not?
For a moment I considered leaving Fat Sloan's and sleeping in the street after all, even though Sloan would never refund my money--but then the wind shook the window at the end of the hall, and I took a deep breath. I was probably worrying about nothing. Just coincidence. I knocked.
"Enter," said a voice. Strange; Sloan had said the spacer was a man, but this sounded almost like a woman. I grinned, suddenly feeling better. Now, that would be an interesting turn of events! I stuck the keychip into its slot and, as the door swung inward, stepped through--
--and jumped back out again, tripping over my own feet and falling backward with a crash that shook the whole floor. I scrambled back until my spine pressed against the wall.
Two purple eyes on moist reddish-orange tentacles slid around the edge of the door and focused on me. A third eye joined them. "Are you unhurt?" said the voice that had told me to enter.
I found my own voice. I also found I couldn't do much with it. "I--I--"
"My name is..." He made a noise like tearing metal. "In your words...Water that Falls from the Sky?"
"Rain?" I croaked. I resolved to kill Sloan.
"Yes, Rain! Like what it is doing outside." A fourth eye rounded the corner, and then the entire creature.
Picture a stalk like a plant's, reddish-orange and dotted with irregular patches of silver and gold. Give it four insect-like legs, positioned equidistantly around the stalk, so it can move instantly in any direction. Top the stalk, about four feet up, with eight writhing tentacles. Put eyes on four of them and have the others end in four smaller tentacles each. Add a mouth at their base, and breathing slits in the stalk that slowly open and close with a wet sucking sound, and you have my roommate. "You're a Hydra!"
"That is what your race calls us, yes." The alien sounded slightly miffed. "We would prefer you to call us..." He shrieked something well above high C.
"Not since my voice changed," I muttered.
"What?"
"Uh--nothing." I remembered I was sitting on the floor and scrambled to my feet. Fat Sloan's floors are nothing you want to sit on for long. "I'm sorry I yelled. Fat Slo--uh, the man who runs this place told me I'd have a roommate, but he didn't tell me he'd be--uh, one of you."
"Ah. Well, certainly I have the advantage of you there, for I did expect that my roommate would be human." Although his voice had that odd almost-feminine pitch, his Fedspeech was easy to understand, perfectly unaccented. "Won't you come in?"
"Uh--yeah. I mean, thanks." Clutching my synth and my mealpac to my chest, I edged into the room. The Hydra made room for me, but not very much, and I dreaded the thought of bumping up against one of his--
I jumped as he laid a tentacle on my arm. His orange skin felt very warm and slightly moist. "Your pardon," the Hydra said. "I believe it is a human custom to exchange names. I've told you mine; you are...?"
"I'm called Kit," I said, a little breathlessly.
"Kit? Do not humans usually have two names or more?"
"I don't." I looked around the dingy little room. There was only one bed, but the Hydra wouldn't use one, anyway...I hoped.
"Is that usual?"
I tossed the synth on the bed and sat down beside it, then undid the laces on my left boot, wriggling my toes and hearing squelchy sounds. "Most people have an individual name and a family name, but I don't have a family. My parents ran off when I was a baby." I pulled off the boot with rather more force than was necessary. "The orphanage didn't give me a name, just an ID number. I was supposed to choose my own name when I was twelve, standard. In the meantime they called me by a 'pre-name'--Kit."
"But surely...I am not a good judge of human ages, but surely you are older than twelve now."
I attacked the right boot. "Yeah, I'm fifteen, local--seventeen, standard--but I left the orphanage when I was ten, and I've had other things to worry about. Kit's good enough."
The Hydra--Rain--said nothing, though his tentacles continued to move slowly. They made me queasy, so I stood up and went to the wash basin in one corner of the room, where I dumped the water from my boots. The rough towel Fat Sloan provided wasn't all that clean, but it was dry. I took off my coat, vest and two shirts; hesitated, then shrugged and stripped off the rest of my wet clothes and began rubbing myself dry. Rain spoke up again abruptly. "What is in this?" In the cracked mirror I saw him lay one tentacle on my synth.
"It's a stringsynth," I said. "A musical instrument." I toweled my tangled hair furiously. "I'm a street musician."
"A musician! A human musician!" All four of his eyes focused on me suddenly. "I have been hoping to meet one! I am honored!"
I wrapped the towel around my waist. "Well, that's a first." Great, I thought. I finally get a groupie, and he's an alien.
"Musicians have great prestige in our society." Rain caressed the synth's strings. "And we admire human musicians especially. Your vocal apparatus is limited, but you create melodies we have never dreamed of--and your harmonies...! I am honored, indeed."
I shook my head. "I'm just a streetkid with a beat-up old stringsynth. You've got nothing to learn from me."
"You are wrong, Kit. I have already learned much from you. I will choose to keep much of it."
Whatever that meant. "So, you know who I am. What about you? What are you doing in Fat Sloan's flophouse?" I reached for the mealpac and pulled its tab; the rich, nose-stinging odor of peppered greenfish steamed out of it, making my mouth water.
"Flophouse?" His tentacles waved. "What is--?"
"Hotel." I gestured at the yellowing walls. "This place."
"It is as I told Mr. Sloan: I am a spacer, but I am between berths. I came here to enjoy new experiences."
I almost choked on my first mouthful of stew. "You mean you're here--in Fat Sloan's--as a 'tourist'?"
"I believe that would be an accurate--do you need assistance?"
I swallowed before I gagged on laughter and fish broth. "No, no, I'm fine. Rain, if you want new experiences, stick with me. I'll show you a side of Fistfight City you can bet your--uh--bottom you've never seen before."
"Thank you!" Rain crowed. "I am in your debt, Kit. Will you also play some of your music for me?"
"Count on it." Thunder shook the room and the wind shrieked through a crack in the window, but I was warm, dry and eating. In my life, I'd learned not to ask for more than that.
Of course, as my roommate proved, sometimes we get things we don't ask for.
#
CHAPTER TWO
Rain asked so many questions I thought he'd never let me sleep, but round midnight he suddenly shut up, in the middle of a sentence. That would have been great, except he didn't exactly fall silent; instead, he began to make a faint keening sound, like the wind, only higher-pitched and more constant. "Orbital," I muttered. If the pillow had smelled fresher, I'd have clamped it over my head. "Roomies with a snoring alien."
The sound kept on. I opened my eyes and looked at Rain in the uncertain light that spilled from the flashing red holosign of the tavern across the road. He had pulled all his tentacles into a tight ball atop his stalk, which pulsed slowly. I swallowed. I'd seen just about everything on the streets of Fistfight City, and never had a nightmare, but sharing a room with that just might manage it. Especially if he kept up that awful noise...
He did. But nothing else happened, and you can get used to any kind of noise if you hear it long enough--something I always figured explained the success of the Sensation Singles. Anyway, it had been a long day, and the bed, even if not particularly clean, was comfortable. Sometime while I was telling myself I'd be lying awake all night, I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, sunlight on the puddle that had collected underneath the window cast rippling reflections on the walls. The rain was over--and Rain was gone.
I sat up and stared around the room. No sign he'd ever been there. Maybe I'd dreamed him.
Maybe I'd dreamed the man in the weathercoat, too. I hoped so.
My stomach growled and I picked up the empty mealpac. I should have saved half of it for breakfast...now I'd have to start the day hungry. Nothing new, but not my first choice...
The door banged open and I scrambled back into the corner, grabbing the pillow. The meatman? No, not unless he'd grown some more arms..."Rain? Is that you?" As soon as I asked the question I felt stupid; what other four-eyed tentacled orange monster would be barging into my room first thing in the morning?
"Affirmative, it is I!" he chortled in that peculiar male/female voice. "I bring food!"
"Food?" I tossed aside the pillow. "What kind of food?"
"I asked the tavern-woman across the street for food-which-you-eat-in-the-morning--"
"Breakfast."
"--breakfast, yes, and she gave me this." From somewhere he produced a mealpac, twice the size of the one I'd gotten from Fat Sloan, and dropped it in my lap.
I tore it open, and mouthwatering steam filled the room. A redcheese and findel-egg omelet! I hadn't eaten this good in--I couldn't remember. It even came with a fork! I'd gulped half the contents before I remembered what passed for my manners. "Uh, Rain, did you want some?"
He made a choking noise that it took me a moment to recognize as laughter. "No, thank you. I ate only nine days ago."
"Oh." I didn't try to change his mind. Within minutes I swallowed the last tangy bite and sat back with a sigh.
All four of Rain's eyes watched me avidly. "Now will you go out on the street and sing?"
I sighed again. "What I'd really like to do is go back to sleep...but I won't!" I added hurriedly as Rain's tentacles writhed. "Fat Sloan will be kicking people out in a few minutes, anyway--except for the crashed-out flashmen. He'll just charge them for a second night and leave them where they are." I got up and padded to the sink. There was a shower down the hall but you never knew who you'd meet in there. I'd settle for a wet washrag and some of Fat Sloan's gritty soap.
"I have heard of these 'flashmen,'" said Rain. "They are humans who have become addicted to a chemical substance?"
I ran water on the rag, then wet the soap. "Yeah, flash."
"And why do they take this substance?"
"To escape."
"Escape? Escape what?"
"Their lives. Places like this." I sniffed at the washrag. Either it or the soap smelled rancid. I settled for splashing water over myself, then rubbing down with the towel.
"But even after they take it, they are still here."
"Not in their heads. Up there, they're somewhere else--even someone else. Plus it makes you feel really strong and fast, like you could do anything."
"You have tried it?"
I tossed the towel aside and reached for my clothes--still wet, but all I had. "No. But I've heard." And some nights, I'd been tempted. I forced my legs into my blackjeans.
"Where do these 'flashmen' get this substance?"
"Just about anywhere. There's a dealer on every block. Fat Sloan, for example."
"And where do they get it?"
My shirts felt like sheets of ice on my back. "How should I know?" I snapped. "You sure do ask a lot of questions!"
"I wish to learn about your culture," said Rain. "That is why I am here. These things I am learning from you were not included in the data on Murdoch IV contained in the ship's computer."
"Yeah? Well, I don't know much about the rest of the planet, but if you want data about its lovely capital city, I know stuff that will slag your hardware." I put on my damp jacket and grabbed the stringsynth. "Let's lift for the street, gladeye!"
"Gladeye?"
I sighed. "That's street slang for friend--you know, I see you, I feel glad, so 'gladeye.'"
Rain's eyes stacked up one above the other. "I have not heard this. My knowledge of your language is incomplete."
"No," I said. "You speak standard Fedspeech very well. But individual groups--like streetkids--speak variations of it."
He sidled closer, staring so intently with all four purple eyes that I took a step back. You haven't been stared at 'til you've been stared at by a Hydra. "Your pattern of speech is inconsistant," he said. "Sometimes you speak 'standard' speech and sometimes this 'slang.' I do not understand."
"I don't plan to be a streetslug all my life," I said. "So whenever I've got a few extra feds I plug the self-teachers at Data Central." I grinned at him and put on the clipped accent of the Planetary Governor. "I am perfectly capable of speaking standard Fedspeech; however, such a mode of communication would not serve me well among my peers in the underprivileged class."
Rain wriggled his eyes. "Most intriguing! I will retain it."
I laughed. "Orbital, gladeye. Let's lift!"
"Slang," he said joyfully. "Let's lift!"
I intended to go back to the tube station--morning rush hour was usually good for a couple of feds--but Rain turned to the right when I turned left, then stopped, his eyes swiveling around to stare at me. "You are not going to the spaceport?"
"Why should I?" I asked suspiciously.
"A big passenger liner lands this morning. Tourists, I think you call them? Are not such people your ideal audience?"
He was right, but I hesitated. The Port was the Ice Boys' orbit and the last time I'd hit it they'd half-strangled me with my own stringsynth strap. I gave Rain a measuring look. On the other hand, last time I hadn't had an orange octopus sidekick. Besides, I could use the feds--and though I hated to admit it, the man in the weathercoat had spooked me. He wouldn't look for me in the Port, because I hadn't been there in months.
"Orbital, gladeye," I said. "Program accepted. Let's lift!"
At the Port, nobody tried to strangle me. Nobody threw money in my hat, either, because the tourists were fresh off some planet even less in the galactic cultural mainstream than Murdoch IV (which I should have guessed from the fact they'd come to Fistfight City to "see the sights," since there weren't any) and had ever seen an alien. Instead of listening to me, they all clustered around Rain, staring. He stared back, sometimes at four different people at once. For all his "I am honored" talk, he didn't seem to be paying much attention to me, either. I broke off in the middle of a raunchy Belvederian folk song and glared at him. "You're negativizing my audience, Rain."
"Hey, it's smooth, gladeye," he said. "I'll lift."
Which he did. Trouble was, he took the people with him. After two hours I'd collected less than the price of even one of Fat Sloan's measly mealpacs. I frowned at Rain and the crowd around him. Maybe I could hide him in the men's room and charge admission. "See the incredible octoman! One fed a hed..."
"Hey, flashmates. Scan who's back in our orbit."
Uh-oh. Little problem I hadn't considered with having Rain move off. I turned slowly. "What's powering, Dry Ice?"
He and three other Ice Boys were leaning against two of the mirrored pillars that dotted the terminal lobby. Since they wore mirrorcloth themselves the effect was unsettling--as intended. Not that it took special effects to unsettle me. I hadn't forgotten what Dry Ice had promised to do to me the next time he caught me in the Port. It involved the monomolecular-edged blades all the Ice Boys carried and the most sensitive parts of my anatomy. I hoped Dry Ice didn't remember as well as I did.
No such luck. He twitched one silver-gloved finger and a faint whispering hum told me his blade, invisible from my distance, was out and active. I slung the stringsynth over my shoulder. "Power down, Dry Ice. It's smooth. I'm lifting."
"You missed the window, gladeye." Dry Ice stepped toward me. The whites of his narrowed eyes showed blue-gray--the sign of a flash user.
Flash had one other side effect I hadn't mentioned to Rain: it could turn even kind and gentle people into dangerous, violent psychopaths--and Dry Ice had never been kind and gentle. He showed his teeth. "You've crashed our orbit for the last time." His flashmates fanned out, surrounding me. I looked back at Rain; not a single eye pointed in my direction. I tensed, ready to run, though I knew from bitter experience the Ice Boys were faster, but suddenly Dry Ice stopped, and his monoblade whispered back into its sheath. "Hey, it's smooth, gladeye. It's smooth!"
I turned, following his gaze. At the top of the escalator stood the man in the long black weathercoat. "Lift," he told Dry Ice and his boys, and they lifted; I watched warily as he descended to my level "You're Kit?" he said as he reached me.
"Information's economic, gladeye. Freeware's a myth."
"Cut the slang. I know you can talk standard Fedspeech."
"Yeah?" I didn't like this at all. He knew too much about me, while I knew nothing about him--except that I had something he wanted. I was behind in the game and didn't even know the stakes--or the rules.
"Yeah." He glanced at Rain, who apparently hadn't noticed the Ice Boys at all--or hadn't cared. Just because we shared a room doesn't make us friends, I reminded myself, or I'd have a lot more friends than I do. As if reading my thoughts, the stranger said, "Saw you come in with the Hydra. Friend of yours?"
"Acquaintance."
"Interesting acquaintance for a streetslug."
"He likes music."
"That a fact?" The man's teeth flashed white. "So do I." He nodded toward Rain. "Let's go see if he likes yours."
"I'm lifting," I said. "Ice Boys come back, I'm protein."
"Ice Boys won't bother you while you're with me."
That wasn't reassuring. Who was this guy? Still, I took his unspoken point: the Ice Boys wouldn't bother me while I was with him, but when I wasn't with him any more... "So let's go talk to my good friend Rain," I said.
"Right," said the man. He strode to where Rain held court. Nobody stared at Rain for long, not once he started staring back, but new people kept emerging from Customs. In the crowd I caught a glimpse of a kid I knew. He'd probably had a very profitable morning, what with all those tourists too interested in the alien to pay any attention to their pockets.
The man in the black coat held up a flat silver box and a nerve-grating screech assaulted my ears. Rain's eyes whirled to face us. He screeched back.
The man bowedto him. "I regret I cannot further converse in your tongue. Only the greeting-of-one-for-a-stranger is programmed into my talksynth."
"Regret nothing," said Rain. "It was a pleasure to hear our language spoken unexpectedly. I shall retain it."
"I am honored." The man straightened. "I am called Qualls. You are Rain?"
"I am..." He shrieked. "But 'Rain' is acceptable." His eyes rearranged themselves. "I have memory of you, Qualls. You were on the ship that brought me here five days ago."
"I am honored my memory was retained."
Rain aimed an eye at me. "You are a friend of my young gladeye Kit?"
"More of an admirer," Qualls said. "I have been watching him since I arrived."
"You've been what?" I exploded.
"Watching you. I've been very impressed."
"I'm nobody's meat!"
"I'm not a meatman." He turned back toward Rain. "You are interested in human music, Rain. I would value your opinion."
"Kit has great talent," Rain said instantly. "Untrained and raw, but very promising. I will retain much of what I heard."
Qualls bowed. "Thank you. You confirm my own opinion."
I stared at both of them. "What's going on?"
Qualls held out a glowing rectangle--a holocard. I glanced at it. Beside the three-dimensional image of his face floated six words that sparkled like diamonds: "Samuel Qualls. Talent Scout. Sensation Singles."
I gaped at him. He smiled. "Kit," he said, "I'm going to make you a star."
#
CHAPTER THREE
Qualls took me to lunch, upstairs in a fancy restaurant in a part of the spaceport I didn't even know existed. He invited Rain along, too, and the Hydra accepted eagerly, although the waiter who greeted us didn't look too happy about the alien's presence. Neither did the half-dozen patrons whose variously horrified or disgusted faces I glimpsed among the ferns and fountains that mostly hid the tables and chairs. But Rain, as far as I could tell (not very far, I admit), was unperturbed. His eyestalks practically tied themselves in knots as he ogled everything, and he chirped musically to himself all the while.
The waiter showed us to a table by a window overlooking the spaceport. Close to the terminal the bulbous gray shapes of four commercial passenger ships loomed over the scurrying vehicles that serviced them. Off at the edge of the field large freighters crouched like distant thunderclouds. But my eyes went immediately to a sleek and silvery yacht that gleamed among the others like a silver knife carelessly tossed among old spoons.
"Like it?" Qualls asked.
Instantly on guard, I put on my best bored-stiff face and turned my back on the window. "It's a ship. So what? You own it, meatman?"
His eyes narrowed. "I told you, I'm not a meatman."
"Yeah?" I flicked his card onto the table. "You buy and sell people. What do you call it?"
Rain had two eyes on me and two eyes on Qualls. I wondered if he could feel the tension between us, or understood it. So Qualls said he would make me a star. Well, I wasn't buying real estate on Earth just yet. I trusted myself--no one else. Especially not someone who would treat streetslime to a meal in a restaurant like this.
If I even got the meal. I had my doubts.
But Qualls surprised me by laughing. "Maybe you have a point, Kit. Enough business for now. Are you hungry?"
He knew I was hungry. But I shrugged. "Not much."
"Well, I insist you try something. This restaurant has surprisingly good food, considering the location." I wondered if he meant the spaceport or the planet. "Waiter!"
He ordered dishes I'd never heard of, and they came in minutes. Qualls only picked at a small plate of purple roots--or were they worms?--but both he and Rain watched as I devoured everything the waiter set in front of me. Pride's all very well, but I'd never seen a meal like that in my life and figured I might never see one again. Calories are calories. I ate.
At last, too full to eat any more--a new sensation I liked very much--I sat back and stared at Qualls. He gazed stolidly back. "Well?" I said.
"Well?"
"Well, what is it you want? And don't feed me more biowaste about making me a star."
"No waste." He pointed to his card. "I am what that says I am--a talent scout for Sensation Singles, Inc."
"He speaks the truth, Kit," said Rain.
"How would you know?" I snapped.
"I spoke to him on the ship coming in."
"He could have been lying to you, too."
"To what end?" asked Rain. "He would gain nothing by it."
The thought occurred to me that they had both lied, to set me up, but even I wasn't that paranoid. "Then why me? Why here?"
"Sensation Singles have to come from somewhere," said Qualls. "Very specific somewheres, actually. Each one is carefully chosen from a particular socio-economic and planetary background. Our computer projections indicate it's time for a tough, street-smart male from this part of the galaxy. Fistfight City's streets are the meanest in Confederation. Drugs, prostitution, cyberjacking--you name it. That makes it perfect." He shrugged. "The choice of you specifically? Coincidence. I heard you outside my hotel the day I arrived. Musical ability isn't absolutely necessary, but it's nice when we can find it, and I'm sure you can learn the dance steps."
"You're saying the you're going to 'make me a star' because I was in the right place at the right time--pure luck?"
"Pure luck."
"Huh." Good luck and I weren't really on speaking terms--but it was easier to believe I'd lucked out than that some stranger had crossed the galaxy to find me. "So what's in it for me?"
Qualls smiled. "Fame and money."
"As a Sensation Single? I'll be forgotten in a year."
"Absolutely. But the money will last a lot longer." He pointed at me. "What do you want?"
"Enough food to eat. A warm, dry place to sleep."
"And after that?"
"I've never even gotten that, yet."
"Forge food and shelter. You'll have enough money to do anything you want. So what will you spend it on?"
I laughed. "Myself." I glanced out the window. "Maybe I'll buy a yacht."
"No need."
"What?"
"You've already got one." He nodded at the gleaming silver ship. "That's The Bullet. For the express use of Andy Nebula."
"Andy who?"
"Andy Nebula. The next Sensation Single." Qualls cocked his head and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. "You?"
I stared out at the yacht. Money, fame, a chance to leave Fistfight City...and though I wasn't about to tell Qualls, I did dream of something more than being warm and fed. I dreamed of writing, performing and recording my own music, of making some kind of permanent mark...with money, even that might be possible.
I let the last of my suspicions go. "Me," I said.
"Orbital, gladeye!" shrieked Rain at a pitch about an octave above high C. The window vibrated dangerously.
"Uh, thanks," I said, removing my hands from my ears, wondering what he was so happy about. Nobody had offered to make him a star--not surprising, with a voice like that.
He backed away from the table. "I'll leave you to your business discussions," he said at a more normal pitch. "I am pleased, gladeye Kit, to see my new friend honored in this way. I look forward to your performances." He scuttled off.
"Thanks," I said again, to empty air.
Qualls leaned forward. "First things first." He pulled a computer out of his coat and unfolded the screen. "This is our standard contract. Let me just go over a few points with you..."
#
And so it began. Almost like in my official biography. Within a day I had new clothes, a new name, a new hairstyle, and an extremely comfortable apartment, a self-contained module aboard The Bullet, which was much larger than it had appeared from the restaurant. The Bullet also contained a full-sized stage, a full stage crew (humans and robots) and enough dancebots and holoprojectors to recreate everything ever choreographed since the first caveman pranced around a campfire. Two days after I signed Qualls's contract we lifted from Fistfight City. I hardly noticed, since I was trying to push my sweating and aching body through my second dance lesson at the time.
Rehearsal followed rehearsal. The dance steps came more easily. I quit kicking the lightweight dancebots across the stage accidentally or stumbling through the holo-projected "walls" of the set. The music I learned in a single day, since it had been computer-written to stick in your head the moment you heard and (just as important) vanish forever a few months later.
I rehearsed all day, every day, and well into every night--not that those terms mean much on a spaceship. In the meantime, the Sensation Singles publicity machine went into high gear. I was photographed, holographed and made into an animated doll; the celebrity-hungry press on all seventy-nine Confederated Worlds received my largely fictitious biography; when deemed ready, I recorded my Single; sometime later I danced through the entire extended version of the song (exactly twenty-two minutes) under the scrutiny of both flatscreen and holovid cameras; two weeks after that my song and video hit the airwaves, and three days later I debuted in the Big Wheel, a giant amusement satellite orbiting Decca VI, to fifty thousand screaming teenagers, each of whom had been carefully chosen to look good on the Andy Nebula Live special that went out Confederation-wide the very next day.
I'd never performed for more than a dozen people at a time in my life, but as the concert approached I felt no nervousness, only exhilaration. I'd rehearsed to the point I could do my song and dance in my sleep--and often did, in my dreams. I considered it vastly superior to the last few Sensation Singles I'd heard; heavy on the dance beat, of course, and the lyrics were nothing special, but the set blew me away. I could have sworn, first time they turned on the holos and I stepped into the picture, that I was back in the alleys of Fistfight City--except these alleys looked even darker and more dangerous. The dance moves, stylized from police vid of gang fights, supported a basic story line of boy (me) meets girl, boy loses girl to flashgang leader, boy bravely fights gang leader and wins, boy and girl ride off into sunset. It would have been a lot more fun if the "girl" had been real instead of a dancebot...
I stood in the wings, listening to the crowd chant, "An-dy, An-dy, An-dy," and felt their energy pour over me and into me like a wave. "Better get out there before they tear the satellite apart," Marcel, the stage manager, said in my earplug. A pounding drumbeat began, the roar of the crowd rose to an incredible volume--and then the set lit up, the stringsynths rasped through the blistering instrumental solo that opened the piece, and I dashed out on stage.
I couldn't see a thing through the lights and the holowalls and everything else, but I could sense every individual in that vast crowd screaming my name. I rode their energy and danced and sang like I never had before, even for the vid. I wasn't streetslime any more--no way. At the climax I smashed the "gang leader" dancebot out of my way with a spinning, leaping kick, and thought, "Suck vacuum, Dry Ice!" Every screaming kids out there knew, knew I was the greatest thing they had ever seen, and in that moment, I knew it, too--and I liked it. I liked it a lot.
Qualls had kept his word. I was a star.
When it was over, I stood backstage, panting, mirrorcloth tights soaked with sweat, and thought I heard, in the blood pounding in my ears, words of caution. "It won't last...it can't last..." But as I ran on-stage again to accept the wild, screaming, standing ovation, as I watched blue sparks crackling around the hands of girls braving the sting of the static fields to get as close to me as possible, I forgot that warning voice. This was what I was meant for.
Kit, the ragged streetkid from Fistfight City, was gone for good. He'd been replaced by an interstellar superstar--me.
Andy Nebula!
#
CHAPTER FOUR
Six months passed in a blur of performances, interviews, rehearsals and travel, but every night I felt that same surge of exhilaration just before I went on, as the crowd thundered, the synths built the pounding back-beat, the lasers flashed through the smoke and the dancebots whirled. I was the detonator of a bomb; when I stepped on stage, things exploded.
At the end of the six months we were on Carstair's Folly, the fourteenth stop in my triumphant tour of the Pleasure Planets. I stood in the wings in my mirrorcloth skin-tights until the crowd was threatening to tear down the soaring gossamer roof of the acoustic tent, then I gave the signal, the computer shouted, "Ladies and gentleman--Andy Nebula!" and I burst on stage and ripped into my sizzling opening dance, while the dancebots fell back in shock and phantom stars exploded overhead.
We had a hundred and twenty-five thousand people there that night and I felt good as I finished my bows and made my exit, the crowd still chanting, "An-dy! An-dy! An-dy!"
Qualls waited backstage; unusual, but not that unusual. "Hey, Qualls," I shouted above the crowd noise. "They still love me."
"Come in here a minute, Kit."
I followed him into his soundproof office and he pointed me to the formchair across from his silver-topped desk. I sat down gingerly; I hate the way those things flow to conform to my butt. "What's powering, manager-man?"
"Cut the slang, Kit."
"Hey, that's my home babble, glad--"
"I said cut it!"
I cut it. "What's wrong?"
He sat down and pulled a whirligig bottle from a drawer, along with two glasses. He filled them both and pushed one to me. I took it, but my stomach fluttered; Qualls never risked heat from the local 'forcers, and on Carstair's Folly serving an intoxicant to a minor, even an intoxicant as weak as whirligig, could land you in jail. Still, the cold fizzy liquid felt great going down. I drank half of it in a gulp, burped, then lowered my glass to see Qualls staring moodily into his own. "Well?" I said.
"You saw the crowd tonight, Kit."
"Looked good. The tent was full."
"Tents are always full, Kit...because you can move the walls."
I stared at him. "What?"
"Capacity is two hundred thousand. We sold one-twenty-five. You weren't a sell-out, Kit."
The fluttery feeling in my stomach grew. I guzzled more whirligig, but it didn't go away. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and set the glass down. "A hundred and twenty-five thousand tickets at fifty feds apiece isn't exactly biowaste."
"Maybe. But it's the first time Andy Nebula hasn't sold out."
"The next planet--"
"Ticket sales are slow. I just got a call from Mr. Korpov."
I wondered if I could get Qualls to serve me something stronger than whirligig. Korpov was the CEO of Sensation Singles, Inc. "He's fading me out?"
"Not yet. You've got four more concerts, no matter what. But if you're not back to sell-outs by that fourth gig..."
"Yeah, I know." I'd always known it couldn't last. Sensation Singles were like non-repeating comets; one blaze of glory, then cold oblivion for eternity. "The crowds will come back, Qualls. I'm sure of it."
"Right, Kit." He drained his whirligig in four gulps. "You'd better go get cleaned up. They'll be moving your dressing room back to the ship in about an hour. We lift tonight."
I stood up, the formchair releasing me reluctantly, and handed him my glass. "I'm vapor, gladeye."
My usual post-concert bubbly feeling had gone thoroughly flat, whirligig notwithstanding. I trudged to my dressing room in a mood as black as the shadows that filled the backstage corridors. As I neared my dressing room door, one of those shadows moved.
I froze, heart racing. In my experience, moving shadows were bad news. The last moving shadow I'd seen, in a Fistfight City alley not far from Fat Sloan's, had been armed with a very nasty zapclub and an even nastier temperament. Fortunately, I was so obviously streetslime he didn't bother with me. But I wasn't streetslime any more, I was a superstar, and prime fodder for--
"Got you!" said the shadow.
"What?" I looked frantically around for Security. What did we pay them for, anyway?
"They got you, got you, got you!" The shadow moved forward, and a red bulbous nose appeared in the light, followed by squinting, puffy eyes and bared, yellowing teeth.
"Who got me?" I backed up against the wall. In the Fistfight City alley I'd at least had my battered old stringsynth to use as a club or shield (which was one reason it was so battered), but now I had nothing but me and my mirrorcloth, and I didn't think either of us would dazzle this madman.
"They got you!" He waved toward the stage. "The sssss...sssss..." Whatever word he wanted wouldn't come. Face contorted, he slammed his fist against the wall so hard I thought I heard a bone break. I jumped, and he shouted in my face, "Got you like they got me like they got her like they got we--we've all been got, got, got, only--" He broke off suddenly, stared up and down the corridor, then leaned in close. His breath reeked of something considerably stronger than whirligig. "I escaped."
"Goo--good for you."
"You can, too." For the first time his eyes opened wide, and I shivereds. The whites were blue-gray, even darker than his blue irises. He was a flashman, and if he was flashing now, he could tear me into little pieces with his bare hands.
It seemed like a good reason to be friendly. "Uh...how?"
He looked at me like I was crazy. "Run!" he whispered, then screamed, "Run! Run! Run!"
Footsteps, at last, clattered down the corridor. "Andy?"
"Marcel!" I yelled. "Help!"
The flashman glared at me, pulled back his fist as if he were going to punch me, then said calmly, "Think about it," and turned and ran--straight into the arms of a burly Security man. "Let me go!" he shouted. "I'm Paris Paradise! They're waiting for me on--" He slumped suddenly, head lolling. Marcel's gray-bearded face appeared behind the Security man's bulk.
"Did you trank him?" Marcel asked.
"Didn't have to," the Security man grunted as he heaved the flashman over his shoulder. "I think he just crashed on his own. I'm sorry, Mr. Roy. I don't know how he got past us."
"Figure it out soon or you'll be looking for a new job," Marcel snapped. "Get him out of here" He came over to where I leaned against the wall. "Are you all right, Andy?"
"Sure," I said. "He didn't do anything except talk." I straightened, then casually leaned against the wall again. My legs weren't quite ready to move me yet.
"I've got to talk to Qualls," Marcel muttered. He hurried back up the corridor, while I stumbled the last few metres to my dressing room. I closed the door, then sat on the bed, looked at my trembling hands, and clenched them into fists.
"I'm getting soft," I muttered. "I've been through a lot worse." But that was in Fistfight City. In my new life things like this weren't supposed to happen.
Good thing my fans would never know about it. With my fake hero-of-the-streets image, they'd never understand why I hadn't simply knocked him down and dragged him off to Security by myself...especially since they were mostly teenage girls with well-to-do parents and nice safe homes. Most of them had probably never even heard of flash. I wished I hadn't.
They'd never understand what it had really been like on the streets, just trying to survive. There had even been times when, if the orphanage would have taken me back, I'd have gladly put up with any kind of abuse just to be warm and fed. And for all my pride at never selling myself to a meatman, I'd been a lot closer to it than I wanted to admit more times than I liked to remember. Street life was almost no life at all, and I had no wish to go back to it--or to Fistfight City. The money I'd earned would keep me off the streets, but it wouldn't keep me out of Fistfight City, if what Qualls said about ticket sales was true. That's where my contract specified I had to eventually be returned, since the law assumed minors should be sent "home."
I looked around the dressing room. This was home, and I didn't want to give it up. Maybe if we boosted promotion...
Who was I kidding? You couldn't possibly boost promotion above the Sensation Singles Inc.'s normal hysterical level.
My terminal beeped, announcing a message. Probably the local media, and I wasn't in the mood. I stripped out of my mirrortights and stepped into the shower, thinking about the Ice Boys as I soaped away sweat. They'd had the same gray-blue eyes as the old flashman. Some were probably dead by now; a lot of people couldn't handle flash--they'd O.D. within half a year. But others went on for years and years, getting stronger and nastier and crazier. I had an uncomfortable feeling Dry Ice might be one of those. I wondered if he knew where I'd gone.
I stepped out of the shower. Brown eyes stared back at me from the mirror. My face and body were a little more filled out than they had been that day in the Fistfight City spaceport, but otherwise I looked the same--same shaggy black hair, same less-than-perfect nose, broken by "accident" after I spilled a bowl of soup in the orphanage. My disreputable appearance had happened to mesh perfectly with the image Sensation Singles, Inc., had cultivated for me, so I'd escaped plastic surgery. Which meant that, yeah, Dry Ice would know what had become of me--hanging around the Port, he could hardly have avoided my video blaring from holoprojectors and flatscreens everywhere.
I dried off and padded back into my dressing room, tossing the towel on the bed, glanced at the beeping terminal, decided I couldn't keep ignoring it, and tapped RECEIVE. Green letters scrolled across the screen. "Again you make pleasant memories I shall retain, gladeye. Your ex-roomie, Rain."
I laughed. I should have known. I'd already had half a dozen similar messages from Rain, in the most unexpected places--but I'd never seen him in person. I'd pretty well decided he wasn't actually at the concerts, but was sending the messages from off-planet. If he really were attending the concerts, why didn't he ever pop backstage to see me? If an old flashman could get through Security, surely a Hydra could...
Still, I felt better. At least I had one fan left.
I cleared the screen, then crossed the room to my closet. Before I reached it, someone knocked. "Who is it?" I called.
No answer, but I heard the latch click open. "Wait a minute!" I yelled, and grabbed the towel from the bed, wrapping it around my waist just as the door swung open and--
I stared in astonishment. "Who are you?"
#
CHAPTER FIVE
I had a quick impression of bright blue eyes and short black hair, and then my unexpected visitor squealed, almost as loud as a Hydra. After a painful few seconds her squeal resolved into words. "You're Andy Nebula!"
"In the flesh," I said, extremely aware that all I was wearing was a not-very-big towel.
The girl blushed. She was two or three years younger than me, with short black hair and wide blue eyes. She wore a glittergold blouse emblazoned with a half-holo of my face, which winked at me whenever she shifted position. Below that were mirrorcloth tights, and below that transparent platform shoes that made her look like they she was floating barefoot ten centimeters above the floor. Her toenails were painted silver. "I'm sorry, I didn't--I mean, I knocked first and--"
"Never mind." At lest she didn't have a camera. I was going to have Marcel fire Security. First a flashman and now a groupie. Fans were never supposed to see Sensation Singles in unscripted situations. They might realize we were ordinary human beings, and we couldn't have that, could we?
Well, she could see I was an ordinary human being, all right, and getting to be a chilly one, because there was a cold draft blowing in from the corridor. "Look, you're not supposed to be here," I said. You'll have to leave, I intended to add, but--
"I know!" she said breathlessly, ducking inside and closing the door behind her. "Isn't it wonderful? Just like in your song, when Bloodstone tells you to get off the planet and instead you sneak into their hideout and Rocket Rick sees you and says--"
"You're not supposed to be here. Yeah, I know, but you're really not supposed to be here. You'll get in trouble."
"It's worth it to see you!"
I sighed. "All right, great, anything for a true fan, but would you mind doing me one favor?"
"Anything," she breathed.
"Turn around so I can get dressed?"
"Oh!" She blushed again, and quickly faced the wall. "I've got my eyes closed, too!"
"Orbital." I dropped the towel and pulled on the first outfit I could find--an all-black affair in leather and microfiber. "All right, I'm decent."
She turned, and frowned. "That's not what Andy Nebula wears."
"I left Andy Nebula on stage." I grabbed a brush and quickly ran it through my wet hair. "Call me Kit."
"You mean--Andy Nebula's not your real name?"
She sounded so shocked I had to laugh. "'Fraid not." I tossed the brush aside and sat down on the bed to pull on my favorite pair of soft-soled boots. "Look, what's your name?"
"My name? You want to know my name?" You'd have thought I'd just handed her a million feds. "Meta."
"Well, Meta, I'm glad you like my Single, but if Security finds you they're going to be very upset and they're going to ask you a lot of questions, not very gently, and then they're going to throw you out, even less gently. Plus, this whole dressing room is going to be sealed and moved to my ship in a few minutes. So I really think you should get out however it was you got in--"
"It was easy," she said. "An old man came running out and all the Security people chased after him and I just walked in."
"Great. I'm lucky a thousand fans didn't knock at my door."
"Oh, no, there was nobody else out there. Everyone knows you never see a Single by hanging around the stage door."
"Except you?"
"But that's different. I mean, I'm different. I mean, I like to try new things." She smiled shyly. "Just like you say in your song, you know, 'I don't follow the crowd/I shout it out loud/when they tell me to go/I'm gonna stay, don't you know?'"
I winced. She'd sung that last part. Sort of. "Well, you'd better get out of here now, and I mean it."
"All right." At the door, she stopped and looked back. "I'll see you again. Real soon."
"Oh, yeah?" If a million or two other kids felt the same way, Korpov might get off my back. "Great. I'll look for you in the crowd." As if I could pick out one face even if I wanted to.
She smiled and slipped out. I flopped back onto the bed, groaning. I really should tell Marcel...but that might get Meta in trouble, and I didn't want that. I had to admire her guts. Not at all what I'd have expected from a Pleasure Planet brat.
So I let it slide; no harm done. I secured the dressing room for transport, then walked back to the stage. Qualls's office had already been hauled away, and the stagebots had dismantled the projectors and lights, leaving only a scuffed and dusty black platform. The roof and walls of the tent sagged. Soon only the litter of discarded programs, snackpacs and drink containers would be left, and a large vacant lot. Time to move on.
Marcel emerged from the wings. "Dressing room ready?"
"Yeah," I said. "And so am I." I walked over to him as he plugged his handcomp into the lead stagebot. "I heard the flashman got away."
"Yeah," Marcel grunted. "But not far. Ran out in front a speeding wheeler."
I felt a pang. "Poor old flashman."
"Not as old as you think." Marcel disconnected. The 'bot rolled away to store itself for transport.
"What?" I stared at him. "Did you know him?"
"Of course not. All I meant was, flash burns people out."
"But--"
"Your transportation's waiting." He strode off. I shook my head and headed for the stage door.
I opened it to discover rain pounding down, and my private wheeler barely visible through the downpour, a good thirty metres away, blocked from coming any closer by the massive transport crawler whose crane was lifting my dressing room. I swore and dashed into the storm, splashing through puddles and arriving at the little black two-seater soaked to the skin. I clambered into the passenger seat and took revenge by shaking my hair like a dog, spraying the blue interior. The driver, a Sensation Single Inc. employee I knew distantly, glared at me and pulled away from the curb way too fast, snapping my head back against the headrest. "Where'd you learn to drive?" I snarled.
"Same place you learned to sing, streetslime," he snapped.
I gaped at him. Sensation Single employees never spoke that way to performers; it could get them fired.
Yeah, it could. I smiled. "Tired of your job?"
"Now, why should I be tired of chauffeuring an obnoxious brat?" He hurtled around a corner, throwing me against the door.
I straightened, rubbing my bruised elbow. "When Qualls hears about this--"
"At this point in your so-called career, kid, I'm more valuable to Mr. Qualls than you. So shut up and enjoy the ride."
I wanted to knock that smirk from his face--but the scary thing was, he could be right. So I shut up and turned toward the window, seething. Everybody thought I was heading for a crash-and-burn. Well, we'd see. There were still four confirmed shows. Ticket sales could still pick up and boost me back into orbit--in which case vacuum-brain here would soon find himself driving garf-drawn carriages on Stimpson's Regret.
I slammed the door extra hard as I got out at the ship.
Each of the modules from backstage, including my dressing room, plugged neatly into The Bullet's hold. Until my dressing room arrived I had no place to go, so I made my way to the lounge to get something to eat and listen to someone else's music besides my own. Use of the lounge was restricted to me, Qualls, and VIP guests, so while I wasn't surprised to see Qualls there, I didn't expect to see a two-metre orange, tentacled alien enthusiastically downing something that looked like sulfuric acid laced with iron filings. "Rain, old gladeye!" I shouted gleefully, rushing toward him.
Tentacles that felt like thin wet rubber wrapped around steel wire lashed around my neck, arms and legs, immobilizing me, then tightening 'til I could hardly breathe. Three purple eyes glared at me. "Or maybe not," I choked out.
Qualls chuckled. "Never startle a Hydra, Andy."
"Good--urk!--advice." The Hydra released me. I managed a smile. Qualls had called me "Andy," which meant this was business. I wished he'd warned me, not only because it would have saved me from near-strangulation but also because Andy Nebula, as Meta had pointed out, should be in mirrorcloth, not funereal black. Still, Qualls must think this Hydra could boost my career, so I'd better play it to the hilt. "Sorry, octofriend, thought I'd scanned you before," I said, plopping down on the stool next to the Hydra. "Whirligig," I said to the bartender, and "What's powering, manager-man?" to Qualls. The bartender turned quickly away. I'd once spent an evening teaching him Fistfight City slang. He almost died laughing.
The Hydra still had three eyes on me. "Octofriend?"
"Just a word, gladeye. Insignificant mass. I'm Andy Nebula."
"Yes, Mr. Qualls has provided images," said the Hydra. "I am sorry for seizing you so impolitely." He'd obviously been around humans quite a bit; he held out a tentacle, and I took it momentarily, remembering how I'd almost jumped out of my skin the first time Rain touched me. This time, I didn't even flinch. "My name is--" The Hydra made a sound like glass breaking.
I couldn't help wincing. "Tuneful," I said, "but don't you have a label in a lower register?"
"Our guest is usually called The Dealer by his human associates," Qualls said.
"The Dealer?" I laughed. "Better hope the sleazeoids don't get hold of that. They'll be datadumping all over the starnet, saying Andy Nebula's got a private flashpusher."
"Flashpusher?" said The Dealer.
Qualls hastily punched buttons on his pocketsynth. "(Moan-scream-whistle-thud)," it said.
"Ah," said The Dealer. "A joke. Ha ha ha." His "laugh" had no inflection at all.
"The Dealer," said Qualls, "may have a gig for you after this tour is over."
"Orbital!" I said. "Download details!"
"It is tentative," said The Dealer. "However, the venue would be my home world. And it would be a long-term engagement."
"It could help you make the transition from Sensation Single to a, ah, more rounded performer," said Qualls. "If you are interested in continuing your career, that is. Are you?"
Was I! I squelched my initial reaction. Wouldn't do to appear too eager. "Could be, manager-man. You think these orange octopeople would still scan me when I'm not Andy Nebula?"
"I think you would be very popular on Hydra," said Qualls. "From your enthusiastic greeting of The Dealer here, I take it you remember the Hydra you were with when we first met."
"Rain? Yeah."
"You'll recall he was quite impressed with you."
"But that was my own music, not this Sensation Single sh--uh, not my current material." Oops, I was forgetting the street slang. But maybe it wasn't important. If the Hydras would let me play my own music, it could be the break I'd been hoping for, the chance to stay in music even after Sensation Singles, Inc. dumped me. It wasn't impossible; Pyotr Vasilovich, one of the Pleasure Planets' most famous and enduring stars, had been one of the very first Singles, Parsec Prince, two decades ago.
"Precisely. We'd design a whole new show around your music."
"I wouldn't be working for Sensation Singles any more?"
"No." Qualls smiled. "I assume you could live with that."
"Smoothly, gladeye. Intensely smoothly."
"Of course, I would hope to continue as your manager..."
"Activate this and I'm yours 'til termination, gladeye."
Qualls's smile widened, revealing teeth. "Excellent! Once the Dealer and I have come to a final understanding, I'll prepare a contract and send it to your room later."
I took the hint. "I'm lifting," I said. "My dressing room should be plugged in by now. Orbital tugging your tentacle, Dealer. Down the timestream, manager-man."
"See you, Andy. Now, then, Dealer..." Qualls lowered his voice and bent toward The Dealer. I took my glass of whirligig with me, wondering if I could get an extra copy of the contract so I could make that driver eat it.
I stopped at hold's main entrance and scanned an electronic schematic of the space beyond. Green, green, and more green; we were loaded and ready to lift. I touched the lockplate and the massive pressure-door slid open to admit me.
The forward part of the ship was like any other spacecraft, but the hold was more like a small village. Modules stood alone in the vast echoing space, connected not by corridors but by lighted pathways. The hold even smelled different, still mostly full of planetary air with all its odors of growing things and people and machines. That smell would linger until a new burst of planetary air replaced it at our next port of call.
The various personnel modules were in the forward part of the hold; the stage and auditorium equipment were installed or stored aft. Beneath the hold were the engines and gravity-field generators; above was shielding and insulation; beyond that was the sky of Carstair's Folly, through which we would very shortly lift. Overhead a slowly blinking red light told anyone interested that the huge cargo doors were not yet space-secured.
On the first few legs of the tour I had occasionally had nightmares about those doors opening in space, spewing all of us out into the ship's wake. I still made sure the door of my module was safety-sealed air-tight whenever I was in it.
Of course it was shut and sealed now, but out of habit I checked the telltales beside the lockplate, and frowned. The internal life support system had activated. It wasn't supposed to do that unless its sensors indicated a living creature needed the oxygen. "Must have picked up a rat," I muttered.
But inside, the module seemed as empty as it should be. Nothing lurked in the bedroom or the bathroom or the little lounge. I plugged a Pyotr Vasilovich musichip into the player, propped myself up my bed, sipped my drink, and finally began to relax, to come down from the concert high.
After a few minutes I set the empty glass on the side table and closed my eyes, enjoying Pyotr's unique wailing vocals. He was singing something mournful about purple skies and golden eyes...or was that purple eyes and golden skies...
Crash! I jerked awake. Pyotr's wailing had been replaced by a deep rumble--the engines, warming up. But that hadn't woken me. The crash had been closer--in my room--Security had already failed me twice that evening--what was the name of that Single who had been murdered by a fan...I stared around the room, but could see no one, and no indication of what had made the crash--
Wait a minute. The whirligig glass had vanished. I relaxed, laughing at myself. The ship's vibration had obviously shaken it off the table. I rolled onto my stomach and peered over the edge of the bed--
--into the wide blue eyes of Meta.
#
CHAPTER SIX
She smiled tentatively. "Told you I'd see you again!" she said over the rising moan of the engines.
I stared at her. This couldn't be happening. For a moment I didn't say anything because the first words that came to mind were ones I was pretty sure Meta had never heard before. I finally settled on, "What do you think you're doing?"
"I've never been in a spaceship before," Meta said. "I thought it would be fun to see if I could sneak onto yours before you left, and you told me the dressing room was going to be moved on board, so I just slipped back in here after you left it backstage but before they sealed it and I slid under the bed but then I got scared when you came in and decided to try to sneak out but I hit the table and the glass broke and--you're not mad, are you?"
I shook my head. You almost had to admire her. Almost. "Look, Meta, do you hear that sound?"
"Yes, and I was wondering--"
"That's the sound of our lift