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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 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 engines. In--oh, I'd say about thirty seconds--we're going to take off."

Her face turned white. "What?" She pulled herself out from under the bed, scrambled up and ran for the door. "I've got to get out of here--"

She was quick, but I was quicker. I grabbed her arm before she could touch the lockplate. "It's too late!" The engines' pitch rose a minor third. "We've lifted."

The moment I touched her, she froze; and then she squealed, a full three octaves higher than the engines, "Andy Nebula touched me!"

I let go of her as though she were hot. "Will you stop this Andy Nebula waste? I told you, when I'm not on stage, I'm not Andy Nebula. I'm just Kit."

She didn't seem to hear me. "I can't believe it! I got into Andy Nebula's dressing room, I talked to him, he touched me, I even went into space aboard his--I can't wait to tell Bekka and Roo and--

"You're going to have to," I said, more harshly than I intended, but I had to get through to her somehow. "You won't be seeing them any time soon."

"What?" That penetrated, all right. "But once you tell the crew I'm on board, won't they--"

"Turn around and land?" I shook my head. "Meta, do you have any idea how much it costs to operate a spaceship?" Actually, I didn't either, but I knew it was a lot, even by Sensation Single standards. "Landing and taking off are the most expensive." That much I knew. The engines changed pitch again, dropping a perfect fourth, and I said, "Hear that? We're boosting for orbit. There's no way this ship is going back now. You're stuck here until we get to our next stop and can put you on a commercial flight home."

Meta had gone pale again. "How long?"

"A week."

"A week?" She gaped at me, then suddenly lunged at the door again, this time getting it open before I grabbed her. "Let go!" she said, struggling in my grasp. "I have to tell my parents--"

"We will, we will," I said soothingly. "But don't you think it would make more sense for me to take you where you have to go to do that than for you to run aimlessly around the ship?"

She subsided, wiping her eyes, and suddenly laughed a little. "I'm sorry. I'm all right now."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." She bent her head back and batted her eyes at me. "But you don't have to let go of me if you don't want to..." she said in as husky a voice as a fourteen-year-old could manage.

I let go of her so fast she half-fell against the bulkhead. "All right," I said stiffly. "Let's take you to face the music."

Meta gazed as wide-eyed at everything we passed on our way to the bridge as I had the first time I came on board. The Bullet impressed everyone (which was the idea, of course). I doubted you'd find many ships with corridors paneled in real Earth oak, floored with deep golden carpets and lit by crystal fixtures. Here and there tiny holovids of previous Singles endlessly repeated the dance steps that had made them--briefly--famous. If you stopped by one the sound came up, too. I never stopped because the last thing I wanted to hear was more Sensation Singles, but Meta would have listened to every one if I hadn't insisted she keep moving. "I don't know how far it is to jump-off," I pointed out, "and we can't send a message once we're in alternity. You don't want your parents thinking you've vanished into thin air and we don't want to be charged with kidnapping. And you'll have plenty of time to explore the ship after this is all settled."

"Right," Meta said, but she still moved reluctantly away from a holo of Phil FreeLight singing Program Your Love, the syrupiest Single of them all, which was saying something. Were all teenaged girls on the Pleasure Planets this spaceheaded? I wondered. Not that I was an expert on girls, public image to the contrary. The "girls" I'd known in Fistfight City were hard as duracrete and meaner than spaceport rats, while as Andy Nebula the only girls I saw were the screaming ones in the audience. Only carefully planned and managed scandals were permitted Sensation Singles.

A sudden shift in decor from flamboyant to utilitarian marked our arrival in Ship's Operations. I sometimes wondered what The Bullet's crew thought of all the Singles they'd seen come and go--and usually decided I was better off not knowing.

The Second Mate, whom we found in a wardroom near the bridge, was not pleased. A small, stout woman with an incredibly deep voice, she frowned ferociously at Meta. "What the blazes did you think you were playing at?" she boomed, and Meta shrank back against me. "Do you know what interstellar law gives us the right to do to stowaways? Do you?"

Meta shook her head.

"It says we can space you. Did you think of that before you--"

I knew the Second Mate only wanted to scare Meta, to make her see how stupid she'd been. I'd tried to do the same thing. But suddenly, I didn't like it very much. After all, Meta was my fan. "End program," I said. "We don't have time for this. You know and I know you're not going to space her, but you're going to worry her parents sick and get us in legal trouble if we don't get a message to them before jump-off. So are you going to let us use ship communications or not?"

The Second Mate flushed--but I was still the current Single and therefore carried considerable weight on board The Bullet, even though I'd never used it before. Seeing the fire in the Second Mate's eyes, I decided I wouldn't try to use it again. But just this once--

"You've got ten minutes to jump-off," she growled. "You and your 'friend'--" she managed to make the word sound insulting, and I flushed even though I had nothing to be ashamed of--"can use communications."

"Thank you." I pulled Meta out of there before the Second Mate could change her mind.

I'd used communications before; the crewman there knew me. "Hi, Andy," he said as I came in. "Who's your lady friend?"

"Hi, Hosking. Stowaway, believe it or not. Fister says you're to let her use communications to call her parents."

"Sure." Hosking smiled at Meta and poised his fingers over the controls. "Access code?"

Meta reeled out a string of letters and numbers that Hosking echoed into the console. After a moment's lightspeed delay, a screen lit with a written message repeated by a computerized voice. "This is the Prescott home. At the moment no human is available to speak to you. Do you wish to leave a message?"

Meta sat down in front of the console. "Milly, this is Meta."

"Identity confirmed. Hello, Meta."

"Are my parents really not at home or are you just in intercept mode?"

"Your parents are attending a reception at the Administrator's Residence," the computer said.

Meta said a word that surprised me. Milly replied primly, "My programming requires me to warn you, Meta, that the word just uttered is not considered acceptable vocabulary by your parents."

"Sorry. Look, take a message for me, will you--"

"Thirty seconds to jump-off," a different computer said.

"You'll have to hurry," Hosking warned Meta.

"Recording," said Milly.

"Mom, Dad, I'm all right, but I won't be home for about a week," Meta said rapidly. "I met Andy Nebula and he's really nice. He asked me to come with him to his next concert, and I was so excited I said yes. But I'll come back right afterward. Be sure to tell Bekka and Roo! 'Bye!"

"Wait a minute--" I began, but "Jump-off in ten--nine--eight..." said the ship, and "Contact broken," said Hosking, and then came the twisting-bent-sideways-turned-inside-out disorientation of the translation into alternity, and there was nothing else to be done about it.

"Wow!" said Meta. "What a ride!"

I groaned and massaged the back of my neck. "Yeah," I muttered. "What a ride."

"Mr. Nebula," said the Second Mate's voice over the ship's intercom, her tone dangerously sweet. "Please report to the Passenger Lounge."

#

On to Chapter 7...