Interstellar Rock Star Read online

  “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.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Qualls took me to lunch, upstairs in a fancy restaurant in a part of the spaceport I didn’t even know existed. He invited Rain along, too, and the Hydra accepted eagerly, although the waiter who greeted us didn’t look too happy about the alien’s presence. Neither did the half-dozen patrons whose variously horrified or disgusted faces I glimpsed among the ferns and fountains that mostly hid the tables and chairs. But Rain, as far as I could tell (not very far, I admit), was unperturbed. His eyestalks practically tied themselves in knots as he ogled everything, and he chirped musically to himself all the while.

  The waiter showed us to a table by a window overlooking the spaceport. Close to the terminal the bulbous gray shapes of four commercial passenger ships loomed over the scurrying vehicles that serviced them. Off at the edge of the field large freighters crouched like distant thunderclouds. But my eyes went immediately to a sleek and silvery yacht that gleamed among the others like a silver knife carelessly tossed among old spoons.

  “Like it?” Qualls asked.

  Instantly on guard, I put on my best bored-stiff face and turned my back on the window. “It’s a ship. So what? You own it, meatman?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I told you, I’m not a meatman.”

  “Yeah?” I flicked his card onto the table. “You buy and sell people. What do you call it?”

  Rain had two eyes on me and two eyes on Qualls. I wondered if he could feel the tension between us, or understood it. So Qualls said he would make me a star. Well, I wasn’t buying real estate on Earth just yet. I trusted myself—no one else. Especially not someone who would treat streetslime to a meal in a restaurant like this.

  If I even got the meal. I had my doubts.

  But Qualls surprised me by laughing. “Maybe you have a point, Kit. Enough business for now. Are you hungry?”

  He knew I was hungry. But I shrugged. “Not much.”

  “Well, I insist you try something. This restaurant has surprisingly good food, considering the location.” I wondered if he meant the spaceport or the planet. “Waiter!”

  He ordered dishes I’d never heard of, and they came in minutes. Qualls only picked at a small plate of purple roots—or were they worms?—but both he and Rain watched as I devoured everything the waiter set in front of me. Pride’s all very well, but I’d never seen a meal like that in my life and figured I might never see one again. Calories are calories. I ate.

  At last, too full to eat any more—a new sensation I liked very much—I sat back and stared at Qualls. He gazed stolidly back. “Well?” I said.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what is it you want? And don’t feed me more biowaste about making me a star.”

  “No waste.” He pointed to his card. “I am what that says I am—a talent scout for Sensation Singles, Inc.”

  “He speaks the truth, Kit,” said Rain.

  “How would you know?” I snapped.

  “I spoke to him on the ship coming in.”

  “He could have been lying to you, too.”

  “To what end?” asked Rain. “He would gain nothing by it.”

  The thought occurred to me that they had both lied, to set me up, but even I wasn’t that paranoid. “Then why me? Why here?”

  “Sensation Singles have to come from somewhere,” said Qualls. “Very specific somewheres, actually. Each one is carefully chosen from a particular socio-economic and planetary background. Our computer projections indicate it’s time for a tough, street-smart male from this part of the galaxy. Fistfight City’s streets are the meanest in Confederation. Drugs, prostitution, cyberjacking—you name it. That makes it perfect.” He shrugged. “The choice of you specifically? Coincidence. I heard you outside my hotel the day I arrived. Musical ability isn’t absolutely necessary, but it’s nice when we can find it, and I’m sure you can learn the dance steps.”

  “You’re saying the you’re going to ‘make me a star’ because I was in the right place at the right time—pure luck?”

  “Pure luck.”

  “Huh.” Good luck and I weren’t really on speaking terms—but it was easier to believe I’d lucked out than that some stranger had crossed the galaxy to find me. “So what’s in it for me?”

  Qualls smiled. “Fame and money.”

  “As a Sensation Single? I’ll be forgotten in a year.”

  “Absolutely. But the money will last a lot longer.” He pointed at me. “What do you want?”

  “Enough food to eat. A warm, dry place to sleep.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ve never even gotten that, yet.”

  “Forge food and shelter. You’ll have enough money to do anything you want. So what will you spend it on?”

  I laughed. “Myself.” I glanced out the window. “Maybe I’ll buy a yacht.”

  “No need.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve already got one.” He nodded at the gleaming silver ship. “That’s The Bullet. For the express use of Andy Nebula.”

  “Andy who?”

  “Andy Nebula. The next Sensation Single.” Qualls cocked his head and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “You?”

  I stared out at the yacht. Money, fame, a chance to leave Fistfight City...and though I wasn’t about to tell Qualls, I did dream of something more than being warm and fed. I dreamed of writing, performing and recording my own music, of making some kind of permanent mark...with money, even that might be possible.

  I let the last of my suspicions go. “Me,” I said.

  “Orbital, gladeye!” shrieked Rain at a pitch about an octave above high C. The window vibrated dangerously.

  “Uh, thanks,” I said, removing my hands from my ears, wondering what he was so happy about. Nobody had offered to make him a star—not surprising, with a voice like that.

  He backed away from the table. “I’ll leave you to your busi
ness discussions,” he said at a more normal pitch. “I am pleased, gladeye Kit, to see my new friend honored in this way. I look forward to your performances.” He scuttled off.

  “Thanks,” I said again, to empty air.

  Qualls leaned forward. “First things first.” He pulled a computer out of his coat and unfolded the screen. “This is our standard contract. Let me just go over a few points with you...”

  And so it began. Almost like in my official biography. Within a day I had new clothes, a new name, a new hairstyle, and an extremely comfortable apartment, a self-contained module aboard The Bullet, which was much larger than it had appeared from the restaurant. The Bullet also contained a full-sized stage, a full stage crew (humans and robots) and enough dancebots and holoprojectors to recreate everything ever choreographed since the first caveman pranced around a campfire. Two days after I signed Qualls’s contract we lifted from Fistfight City. I hardly noticed, since I was trying to push my sweating and aching body through my second dance lesson at the time.

  Rehearsal followed rehearsal. The dance steps came more easily. I quit kicking the lightweight dancebots across the stage accidentally or stumbling through the holo-projected “walls” of the set. The music I learned in a single day, since it had been computer-written to stick in your head the moment you heard and (just as important) vanish forever a few months later.

  I rehearsed all day, every day, and well into every night—not that those terms mean much on a spaceship. In the meantime, the Sensation Singles publicity machine went into high gear. I was photographed, holographed and made into an animated doll; the celebrity-hungry press on all seventy-nine Confederated Worlds received my largely fictitious biography; when deemed ready, I recorded my Single; sometime later I danced through the entire extended version of the song (exactly twenty-two minutes) under the scrutiny of both flatscreen and holovid cameras; two weeks after that my song and video hit the airwaves, and three days later I debuted in the Big Wheel, a giant amusement satellite orbiting Decca VI, to fifty thousand screaming teenagers, each of whom had been carefully chosen to look good on the Andy Nebula Live special that went out Confederation-wide the very next day.