Now available
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

Back to start

Back to Chapter 6

CHAPTER SEVEN

Qualls met us in the lounge. "Wonderful," he said, surveying Meta as she stared eagerly around. "Just wonderful. We'll be lucky if the police aren't waiting for us next planetfall."

That brought Meta's head around. "Oh, no," she said. "I sent a message to my parents."

"I reviewed your 'message.' Why didn't you tell the truth?"

Meta looked abashed--but only a little. "I'm sorry. I guess I wanted to impress them--and my friends."

"Well, you're going to have to send another message when we slip back into realspace. I'm afraid you're going to be gone longer than a week."

"What?" said Meta, and "Why?" I echoed.

"There's been a change of plans."

"A change of plans?" I felt a chill. "Ticket sales--?"

"Next to nothing. We've canceled all the remaining tour dates except the final one, and we're moving it forward."

"But you said Mr. Karpov agreed to at least four more--"

"This change is my idea."

"Your idea?" I felt my face flush. "You canceled three of my performances without even asking me?"

"I did ask you."

"When?"

"Just a couple of hours ago, right here. You agreed to a long-term arrangement on Hydra, remember?"

"What's that got to do with--"

"It starts before the tour would have been over. I tried to talk The Dealer into pushing the opening back, but he was adamant. I assumed you would consider holding onto this post-tour deal more important than playing a couple of dates before half-empty houses, but if you'd like I can probably still cancel--"

"No." I took a deep breath. "No, of course not." I tried on a grin; it fit pretty well. "All's optimal, gladeye."

Qualls grimaced.

Meta had been following this conversation like a spectator at a tri-ball match. "But what about me?"

"What about you?" Qualls snapped, and this time I didn't feel much like standing up for her. She'd been nothing but trouble from the minute she'd sneaked into my dressing room, and she'd as much as told her parents I'd seduced her. I wondered if I could sue her for defamation of character.

Oh, well--maybe a good mudsplatter from the sleazeoids would boost the crowd at my last show.

"You can send another message next time we're between jump-offs," Qualls told Meta, "but we're not landing and you won't be able to get a ship until we reach the closing venue of the tour."

"Where's that?"

"Kit's home town."

I stared at Qualls. "Fistfight City? You never said--"

"You never asked."

Some excuse, but I let it go. So, I was going to return to Fistfight City as the hometown-boy-made good. I hoped I'd draw a crowd. I hoped the Ice Boys came--however many of them flash had left alive. However many still had brain enough to remember me.

Any worry Meta had about the extra time away from home vanished in sudden excitement. "But that's great!" she said, turning to me with wide eyes. "You can show me all those places in your bio--the store where the owner gave you your stringsynth because he could tell you really loved music, the park where you sang your first song and the kind old lady gave you--"

"Yeah, right," I said. As I've mentioned, my official bio was worth considerably less than the chip it was stored on. I guess you could say that a store owner had "given" me the stringsynth, since I certainly didn't pay for it, but he hadn't been aware of his generosity, being home in bed at the time. "I doubt you're going to be there long enough."

"Take her to any of the empty guest quarters," Qualls said.

I started to ask why a crewman couldn't do that, but Qualls had turned his back on us. Irritably, I led Meta out.

More holovids of former Singles lined the corridor running to the guest quarters. Meta listed them happily as we passed. "That's Flashpoint Charlie, and there's The Toneman, and that's Rubberneck, and--oh, look, that's Paris Paradise!"

I stopped dead. "Paris Paradise? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Meta said, in a don't-be-silly tone. "I know all the Singles."

I hurried back to the holo. "What's wrong?" Meta asked.

The sound came up as I stopped by the alcove. "A planet can be paradise/a comet can be paradise/a twirling asteroid can be a paradise for two/if the two are you and me together/here today and there forever..." I winced but leaned closer, trying to get a clear look at the little twirling figure's face, but the resolution wasn't good enough. Besides, it couldn't be. The old flashman had been in his fifties. Paris Paradise the Sensation Single couldn't be more than twenty-one by now, because all Singles had to be teenagers. Just because he had claimed to be Paris Paradise...anybody could claim to be anybody. Before he met me he probably told half a dozen other people he was Andy Nebula.

But still, that name, and that warning about someone or something getting him, getting her, getting me, too...I didn't like it. If something like that had happened on the street, I would have lifted, fast. That's the way you find out about threats on the street--garbled whispers and half-heard rumors. It doesn't pay to wait for proof that a flashgang is taking over the burned-out building where you've been flopping or that the meatmen are stocking up. If the street is tense, you lift--if you can. I'd always been able to, because I fed myself with my stringsynth. But this time I couldn't.

On the other hand, this wasn't the street.

"Have you met him?" asked Meta.

"No. I mean, I thought maybe I did--but I guess I was wrong." I straightened and strode firmly on down the corridor. "Let's get you settled so I can get some sleep."

Meta's new quarters weren't much further. I showed her how to key the lockpad to her handprint, and she opened the door and stepped inside. The lights came up, revealing a smaller version of my own dressing room--sleeping area, sitting room, bathroom. No kitchen like mine had, but on the other hand, the furnishings were far more ornate, because this cabin didn't get transported to and from the ship. Meta bounced on the bed, then grinned at me. "This is great! I'm glad I won't be able to go home for a month. This has all worked out so much better than I expected. It really is just like your song, you know?"

"It's not my song," I snapped. "It was written for me by a computer. You've never heard my music, unless you used to hang out on street corners in Fistfight City."

"Then why don't you play some for me?"

"No. It's late, I'm tired, and I've got a lot to think about. Good night."

"Tomorrow?" Meta called after me as I went out the door.

I didn't reply.

On the way back to my dressing room I studied the holovids I passed. Who had all these kids been, really? Had any of them dreamed of being more than a Sensation Single? Had any of them made it? Sure, there was Pyotr, but he'd been only the second or third Single, almost twenty years ago. Since then at least fifty had come and gone--maybe more, since some only lasted a couple of months. But aside from Pyotr and the one that had been murdered--StarMaid, that was her name--I knew nothing about any of them.

Time to find out, then. I resolved to do some extensive digging in the computer.

Tomorrow. Right now, all I was looking for was sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, in my dressing room (and after a quick check under the bed--well, you never know), I found it.

#

On to Chapter 8...