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Lost in Translation

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Praise for Ed's previous novel, Lost in Translation:

"Edward Willett has arrived, and SF is the richer for it." -  Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award-winning author of Hominids

"A believable, absorbing, thought-provoking and highly enjoyable read." - Kathy Tyers, Author of the Firebird trilogy, Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura, and Star Wars: Balance Point

Andy Nebula: Interstellar Rock Star
Published by Roussan Publishers

Nominated for the 2001 Manitoba Young Readers Choice Award
Named to the Our Choice list by the Canadian Children's Book Centre

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CHAPTER TEN

 The rain had subsided to a fine mist, leaving the air cool and fresh, and I felt wonderful as I sang and danced and fought my insubstantial enemies and rescued my robotic girl. I couldn't see the crowd, but I could hear them, could sense that I had them, that they were caught up in the story told by the song and the dance. I felt I held the emotions of all thirty thousand of them in the palm of my hand like a lump of clay. They followed every nuance, responded to every subtlety, and rewarded me at the song's end with a standing ovation and the roar of "An-dy! An-dy! An-dy!" over and over.

I came off the stage drenched with sweat and riding a high like I'd never felt, even after my very first concert. To my surprise, Qualls greeted me in person. "Great show, Kit!" he shouted in my ear above the ongoing roar of the crowd. "The Dealer was impressed!"

I gave him a thumbs-up and a grin. Who cared what silly scam involving my money he was up to? It couldn't dampen this moment for me. He clapped me on the shoulder as I went past him toward the tunnels leading back to the parking lot and my dressing room. "I'll be by later and we'll finalize things," he yelled.

I nodded and kept moving, grabbing the towel I always kept handy backstage and wiping my face as I went. He'd better come by quick, I thought; I had no intention of hanging around my dressing room for long. We wouldn't be lifting until the next day, and I planned to celebrate my success by hitting some of the Fistfight City funspots I'd only seen from the outside when I'd lived there. I used to play my stringsynth for the crowds waiting to get in, until the bouncers chased me off. I grinned to myself, picturing those same bouncers fawning all over me now that I was Andy Nebula. Oh, yes, it was going to be a big-time homecoming party night for this boy.

I passed Security people at various places where access might have been gained to the backstage area, and nodded approvingly to each of them in turn. No more flashmen cornering me in the corridors, and no more surprise visitors to the dressing room, I thought--and then stumbled to a halt just a few metres from my door, because there was someone there, just visible in the shadows. I turned to call for Security, but the shadowy figure said, "No, Kit--wait," and stepped into the light.

I stared. "Marcel? What are--why aren't you in the control booth?"

"I left the computer in charge."

"But you're not supposed to do that. What if something went--"

"It didn't, did it? I've got to talk to you without Qualls knowing, and as long as he thinks I'm up there, he won't suspect that I'm back here."

"Well--" I touched the lockplate and the door slid open. "Come inside, then." Marcel followed me in quickly and took off his weathercoat and the floppy hat that had shadowed his face. I tossed my towel on the bed. "Wasn't that a great show?" My computer terminal blinked at me as I passed it on my way to the kitchen for a cold drink--fan mail waiting, I thought smugly. "All that rehearsal really paid off. Qualls sure knew what he was talking about."

"Yeah, Qualls always knows what he's talking about. But I don't think you do."

I turned with an unopened chillpac of icefizz in my hand. "What?"

"I came to tell you--" Marcel took a deep breath. "I came to tell you you've got to dump Qualls as your manager. Now, while you still can."

"Dump him?" I opened the pac and took a swig of cold tingling sweetness. "He's already got a post-Single gig lined up."

"Believe me, you don't want it."

"Believe me, I do want it." I flopped in a chair. "Andy Nebula's dead and gone, as of tonight. Now there's just me--Kit--and my music. And besides, we have a verbal agreement--witnessed by Qualls, The Dealer and The Bullet's barman. That's binding enough that if I back out now Qualls will tie up all my credit so fast I'll be back singing outside Fistfight City bars."

"You'd be better off."

I gulped more icefizz, then wiped my mouth and pointed the pac at Marcel. "Look, you're not telling me anything I don't know. I know Qualls is up to something--I heard him yelling at you two days ago. I figure he's planning to skim off a big chunk of the money I should earn from this Hydra show." I shrugged. "So what? I've got enough credit from being Andy Nebula to last me all my life--unless I crash Qualls's program. What do I care if he gets rich, too? The important thing is to do the show--to do my music."

"No, the important thing is to not do the show." Marcel sat down on the bed facing me, eyes narrowed and intense. "Listen to me, Kit. You asked about the other Singles. Qualls offered most of them post-Single gigs, too. And where are they now?"

"You tell me."

"I wish I could." Marcel got up again abruptly and paced. "I shouldn't even be telling you this much. If Qualls finds out--"

"What's he got on you?"

Marcel stopped dead, and slowly turned to face me. "That's one thing I won't tell you. Just don't ignore this warning, Kit. Tell Qualls you want no part of this Hydra deal, cut your losses and run. You can find another manager, a good one--you've got the talent. You could be another Pyotr--"

"Why are you warning me at all? Why take the risk?" I studied him suspiciously. "What's in it for you?"

"Let's just say it makes it a little bit easier for me to live with myself--a very little."

I frowned. I didn't want this, not tonight, not after that great show. I wanted to keep the high, keep the adrenaline flowing, go out and party, plan my brand-new non-Single show in my head--I didn't want these veiled warnings and dark remarks and most of all I didn't want anything to interfere with the bright new future I already had mapped out for myself.

"Fine, you've warned me. Now go away and live with yourself. I'm going to take a shower and change, and then I'm headed out on the town." I emptied the icefizz pac and tossed it into the disposal bin. "And you'd better get back to the control booth, because Qualls said he'd be coming by here shortly to fill me in on the details of the Hydra deal."

"Kit--"

Suddenly angry, I spun on him. "What? If Qualls is so dangerous, tell me the whole story! Clear your conscience altogether! Make me listen to your warning! Otherwise, lift, because I really don't see that it's any of your business what risks I choose to take with my career!" Marcel stared at me, white-faced, then turned and strode toward the door, snatching up his weathercoat on the way. "Good," I muttered, and sat down to pull off my boots.

But Marcel didn't go. At the door he hesitated, started out again, hesitated once more, and finally swore, closed and locked the door, and turned back toward me again. "All right, Kit," he growled. "I'm risking more than you know telling you this--but blast it, I'm sick and tired of watching Qualls get his hooks into you kids. And after Carstair's Folly..."

"I'm listening," I said, but I kept removing my boots.

"I don't know all of it. But I do know this--none of the Singles Qualls has 'managed' has ever been heard of again."

"Yeah? Well, maybe they didn't have my talent." I finished with the boots and pulled off my shirt.

"Some of them didn't. But some of them did. And all of them--all of them, Kit--were offered gigs on Hydra after their tour ended."

That was news. I stared at him, holding my shirt. "All of them?"

"That octopus called The Dealer--it's not the first time I've seen him with Qualls. And there have been other Hydras, too."

"Maybe they really like music."

"Maybe. But what happens to the Singles after they go there? They just disappear. I've checked the computer--"

"So have I."

"And found nothing?"

I tossed the shirt aside. "Nada."

"Me either. But whatever is happening to them, Qualls is getting rich from it. You've never seen any of his homes on various planets--but there's no way he's keeping them up on the salary Sensation Singles pays. I should know."

"Maybe he's some kind of meatman."

"I thought of that--but you wouldn't run something like that out in Hydran space. They wouldn't be interested."

I shuddered. "I hope not."

"And then--" Marcel shook his head. "And then there was that business on Carstair's Folly."

"The flashman?"

"Yeah." Marcel sat down on the bed again, his weathercoat in his hands. "Kit, you asked me straight out before, and I wouldn't tell you because--well, because I was scared. If Qualls had anything to do with it, he's an even nastier customer than I thought, and if he finds out I've told you all this, or tried to warn you off--"

"I'm not likely to tell him," I said. "But what about the flashman? Was he--"

"Paris Paradise?"

I nodded.

"It sounds crazy, Kit, and I don't know how it could be true, but--yes. He was."

Something cold crawled into my belly and curled up like it was going to stay for a while. "Flash--"

"Flash ages people, but not like that. It was like--like he'd lived a lifetime in the last two years. And it drove him crazy. Along with the flash."

"And now he's dead."

"Yes."

It might have nothing to do with Qualls, or Hydra, I told myself. Two years is a long time, Paris Paradise could have been involved in something else we know nothing about...

But streetsense clobbered me on the side of the head. I told you to listen to me, it shouted. Bad trouble coming. Lift. Lift now!

I stood up. "You'd better get out of here."

"Right." Marcel stood, shrugged on his weathercoat, and held out his hand. I shook it. "Good luck, Kit," he said softly. "But watch your back. Qualls is a bad enemy."

"You watch yours." Marcel nodded, crossed to the door and went out, and I stripped off my mirrortights in a hurry. No shower now--I wanted to be long gone before Qualls came calling. Ignoring my terminal, still flashing furiously at me, I pulled on the same black leathers I had donned after Meta dropped in so unexpectedly on Carstair's Folly, then grabbed a bag and hurriedly stuffed it with a few clothes (none of which were mirrorcloth), some souvenirs of the various planets I'd been on, a couple of vidchips of my Single and, of course, my Andy Nebula credit chip. Maybe I could draw off some cash before Qualls shut down my account. I tossed in what little food I had in the kitchen, slung my battered old stringsynth over my shoulder, and was taking one last look around to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything when the door opened without warning.

"Going somewhere, Kit?" said Qualls.

#

On to Chapter 11...