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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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Back to Chapter 7

CHAPTER EIGHT

As usual, in the morning all the vague fears of the night before seemed foolish. Oh, I still intended to research the fates of my predecessors, but it didn't seem nearly as urgent. Besides, we were two weeks from Fistfight City. Plenty of time.

Plenty of time for Meta to drive me crazy, too, I thought. I ate breakfast alone in my room, but I was only halfway through my poached smokebird when Meta knocked. (Somehow I knew it was her even before I checked the security monitor.) At least she knocked this time, I thought. I cinched up my robe and let her in.

She bustled in with an amount of energy I found disgusting at that time of shipday. "Good morning!" she chirped. "Why, you're not even dressed yet, sleepy-head."

"I wasn't expecting visitors," I said, and went back to my breakfast tray.

"Mmmm, that looks good. Better than what I had." She sat down beside me on the bed. "So, what are we going to do today?"

"We?" I picked up my glass and drained my orange juice at a gulp. "Look, Meta, in case you've forgotten, I'm a professional entertainer. I've got work to do. I can't be--"

"You mean you'll be rehearsing, and stuff like that?"

Actually, I seldom rehearsed any more, but if it would keep her off my back--"Yeah, stuff like that."

"I'll watch!"

"You can't. It's--a closed rehearsal." I shrugged. "I don't make the rules." Although I'd just made up that one. "Can't have the public seeing Andy Nebula flubbing a dance step."

"Can't have the public seeing Andy Nebula in his bathrobe, either," Meta pointed out, "but..."

Another knock rescued me from having to respond. "What is this, Earth Central Spaceport?" I stamped over to the door and opened it to discover one of the Sensation Single Inc. employees who always seemed interchangeable to me, like glowtubes.

"Sorry to interrupt, Andy..." The young man's eyes slipped to Meta, sitting on the bed, then back to me. "...but Mr. Qualls and Mr. Marcel need to see you in the lounge as soon as convenient."

"I'll be there in ten minutes." I shut the door in his face and turned back to Meta. "You heard. I have to get dressed..."

"Later, then...you can give me the grand tour!" She swept out.

"Not if I can avoid it," I said to the closed door.

To my astonishment, I really did have to rehearse. In fact, for the rest of the journey Qualls and Marcel worked me harder than they had since I'd started. I hardly saw Meta at all, but she didn't seem to mind--as far as I could tell, everyone on board loved her, even the Second Mate, whom I surprised giving her a tour of the hold as I came off the stage one afternoon. Meta waved gaily to me; the Second Mate gave me a look as cold as a cryofreezer, as though daring me comment. I didn't.

"But why do I have to rehearse so much?" I complained to Marcel a day or two later. "I could sing and dance this deadhead Single in my sleep!"

"Take it up with Qualls," Marcel grunted, heaving a misplaced fogmaker back into position. "I just run the stage."

I stamped off determined to do exactly that. This was crazy! I only had to perform this drivel once more, then I'd be performing my own music on Hydra. That was what I should be rehearsing.

I found Qualls in the Lounge with-- spacewaste! Nobody had told me The Dealer was still aboard. Time to haul out my "home babble" again. "Hey, gladeyes! Mr. Dealer, old octofriend. Thought you lifted back on Carstair's Folly."

Three of The Dealer's eyes twisted around to stare at me. "I have business in Fistfight City," his neuter voice said. "Mr. Qualls was good enough to offer me passage."

"We're rather busy--" Qualls said irritably, but I had plenty of irritation of my own; I slid onto a stool beside The Dealer.

"Well, I'd say it's high-prob business between you and Octoman here figures me." I smiled at Qualls, who scowled.

"We are indeed discussing your future," said The Dealer. "I was merely laying out for Mr. Qualls the details of your scheduled stay with us on my home world."

"Orbital! My file on that's definitely data-poor. What's the high-accuracy bytestuff, Mr. Manager?"

"It's not entirely settled," Qualls said. "There are still a few points to finalize."

"I'm linked!"

"Excuse us just a moment," Qualls said to The Dealer. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the farthest corner of the lounge. "What are you trying to do?" he whisper-growled. "You don't know how to deal with the Hydras. If you keep sticking your face into negotiations the whole thing could fall apart."

"Then how about filling me in on what you've already decided?" I growled back. "Or is it too much to ask that I be told something about my own future?"

Qualls shot a glance at The Dealer, who was literally keeping one eye cocked at us. "All right, all right. But not now. Later. For now, get out of here."

"Not just yet," I said. "I came to find out why you've got me rehearsing night and day. I've only got to sing From the Street to the Stars once more, and you know I know it perfectly."

"It's got to be better than perfect in Fistfight City if you want to sign on with The Dealer."

"But if I'm going to be doing my own music on Hydra--"

"It's three weeks to Hydra. Plenty of time to rehearse then."

"Is there a problem, Mr. Qualls?" called The Dealer.

"No!" Qualls said. As he turned his head, I saw sweat glistening on his forehead. "Just a technical matter--look, I told you, let Marcel handle it," he said loudly to me, and pushed me toward the door.

This time I took the none-too-subtle hint, but I stopped outside. The Dealer had Qualls scared spitless. But why? An ordinary business deal--my future was on the line, not his--

Unless he had something special riding on this, too. His reputation, maybe. Vacuum, for all I knew he had a million-fed gambling debt. I should be flattered he thought I could make money for him.

Huh. I didn't feel very flattered. I walked slowly back toward the hold, and paused again by the holo of Paris Paradise--not too near, since I didn't want to activate his annoying song. I wondered if anybody would stop and listen to me when I was in a little alcove like that. "Were things this crazy when you were a Single?" I asked Paris. He just kept dancing.

I'd put it off long enough; it was time I followed up on my vow to find out what had happened to Paris--to all of them. If I could just get some time off from rehearsing...

In the end, two days from Fistfight City, an equipment malfunction gave me my chance. One of the holoprojectors blew a something-or-other, causing half of the flashgang I supposedly held harmless through the brilliance of my dancing to suddenly freeze in place. Holos or not, I still winced as, unable to stop, I whirled through eight of them. The synths switched off abruptly and Marcel's creative curses echoed from the control booth. "Done for the day, Kit," he said when he ran out of obscenities. "Richter, where the vacuum did you--" his voice cut off.

I lifted before he could change his mind, and a few minutes later finally sat down at my computer terminal, where the first thing I discovered was a message from Meta. I quieted a pang of guilt at having ignored her. If she could charm the Second Mate she could obviously take care of herself.

"Hi, Andy," her recorded image said.

"Kit!" I snapped. The recording ignored me, of course, but then, the real girl probably would have, too.

"Can't seem to get more than a second or two with you, so I thought I'd leave this to let you know I messaged my parents at the last jump-off. Of course, they won't get it until the capsule makes it out of alternity at Carstair's Folly, but...anyway, I told them I was fine and that there'd been a change of plans and I'd be back even later than I thought, but not to worry because I was with you and having a wonderful time. I just wish I could see Bekka's face...anyway, if you ever have some time when you're not rehearsing, I hope we can do something together. All right? 'Bye. And I don't care if your tour is winding down, I still think Andy Nebula is the best Sensation Single ever!" Her picture went away, but it left me feeling guilty again. Here I did have some time off rehearsing, and I was planning to spend it with my computer.

Huh. So what? I didn't owe her anything. She'd pushed herself on me. Besides, she'd rather make up stories about all the fun she'd had with Andy Nebula on this trip than face the dull reality. I cleared the screen and asked for current information on former Singles.

I drew the computer equivalent of a blank stare. There was no current information on any former Sensation Singles, except for old Pyotr and poor dead StarMaid. All the rest had dropped out of sight. For some, nothing existed except the official Sensation Single bio--and I knew how trustworthy that was. I did find out a few real names--Rubberneck was a kid called Kim Ng, for example, from an extremely out-of-the-way planet with the improbable name of Piggyback--but even that didn't help much. Kim Ng had very little history before he became Rubberneck and none at all afterward. He just disappeared.

I dug even harder for something on Paris Paradise, with little more success. His real name was Adrien Chapdelaine, and he'd been born in the ancient city of Paris on old Earth itself--hence his stage name. No records of a family, no home address, nothing but an Earth World Authority census number. And after his brief reign as a Single--nothing at all.

"Nobody just vanishes," I muttered. I called up my own file--and was chilled by the similarity to Adrien Chapdelaine's. No family, no home address, not even a government number, since the Farrisian government couldn't care less whether I existed and had apparently never linked me to a kid who ran away from an orphanage years before--if I'd even been reported missing. Knowing that place, it was probably still collecting government feds for my support.

And when my tour ended, would my appearance on Hydra be noted? Surely--and yet, I couldn't believe not one of those dozens of former Singles had ever tried to continue his or her career, or failed so completely as to leave no trace.

I tried to tell myself I was being crazy, worrying about nothing, but streetsense, based on seven years of living off my wits, overpowered Andy Nebula's version of common sense, based on a few months of having things given to him on a platter. Before I sang a note in Fistfight City, I'd know the truth--and I thought I knew who could tell it to me.

"Not as old as you might think," Marcel had said about the flashman who called himself Paris Paradise, and "No, I didn't know him--I just meant flash ages a man."

I headed for the stage.

#

On to Chapter 9...