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Lost in Translation

The paperback from DAW Books

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 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."

#

On to Chapter 3...