Diamond Star
Catherine Asaro

I: Vault of Steel Tears

Del was sick of being interrogated. Supposedly he was a guest of Earth's government. Right. That's why they wouldn't let him leave their military base in this place called Annapolis. He was thoroughly fed up with their questions.

Today it was an Army officer. Barnard? Bubba? No, Baxton. That was it. Major Baxton. He had a green uniform and hair so bristly, it looked like a scrub brush. He sat across the table from Del in an upholstered chair that was obviously more comfortable than Del's metal seat. Holographic lights, or holos, glowed around the major, floating above the table as if he were a demon presiding over a laser-tech hell.

"All right, let's get started," Baxton said in English.

Del gritted his teeth. They all knew he didn't speak English very well. He could ask to use a language he knew better, but damned if he would show vulnerability to these people.

"Tell me your name," Baxton said crisply.

"My name?" Del thought he must have misunderstood.

"Your name," the major repeated. "Is that a problem?"

"You know my name." What was Baxton up to? Del felt off balance, unsure what these people wanted with him.

Baxton folded his arms on the table, and little green spheres floated near his elbows. "For the record."

"This is ridiculous." Del was so uneasy, his accent came out even more than normal. "You know name of mine. Your CO, he know it. Everyone here know it."

"For the record," Baxton repeated.

"Fine. You want my name? Have it all." Del leaned back and crossed his arms. "Prince Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria kya Skolia, Dalvador Bard, Fifth Heir to the Ruby Throne, once removed from the line of Pharaoh, born of the Rhon, Heir to the Web Key, Heir to the Assembly Key, Heir to the Imperator."

Baxton squinted at him. "Uh, yes. Thank you. Age?"

"Why not look at this mesh file you all keep about me?" Del wondered when they would stop with all this business. "I am sure it say my name, age, home, what I eat, when I use bathroom, and how many wet dreams I have last night."

Baxton cleared his throat. "Your age, please."

Oh, what the hell. "Seventy-one."

"In Earth years."

Del wished he knew how to get out of this conversation. "That is Earth years."

Baxton spoke coolly. "Prince Del-Kurj, you are clearly not seventy-one years of age."

Del glowered at him. "Then maybe you tell me how old I clearly am."

"Seventeen?" Baxton's look suggested he thought Del was some defiant punk.

"Fine," Del said. "Have it your way. I'm seventeen."

Baxton glanced at the holos floating around him. Most were green, but one had turned red. "You're lying, Your Highness."

Del bit back the urge to tell Baxton what he could do with his lie detectors. Being rude wouldn't get him out of here. He wasn't sure of his age, anyway. Twenty-six maybe, but the year on Earth didn't match the world where he lived. Baxton could go look it up if he really wanted to know.

Del just said, "I am older than I look." The holo above the table turned green.

The major regarded him curiously. "Have you had age-delaying treatments?"

"Not really." Del laughed to cover his unease. "They say youth is curable. I guess in my case it isn't."

Baxton gave him a sour look. He tapped the table, and a new holo formed in the air, the image of a serpent curled around a staff, what Del had learned was a symbol of medicine here. When Baxton flicked his finger through the staff, words appeared below it on the table. He read for a moment, then said, "According to this, you have good genes, good health care, and good cell-repair nanomeds that delay your aging." He looked up at Del. "But don't your nanomeds get outdated?"

Del shrugged. "My doctor, every few years, he update them. I am scheduled for update a month ago." Dryly he added, "But I not get the update. It seems here I am, on Earth, instead of home."

"We could do it," Baxton offered, looking helpful, which was about as convincing as a wolf trying to look cuddly.

Right. Del saw their game now. This business about needing his name and age was a ploy in their endless search for excuses to analyze him. During his four weeks here, they had constantly tried to convince him that he should submit to their medical exams. His refusal stymied them, for they walked a fine edge between holding him captive and honoring him as a royal guest. They didn't want to look as if they were forcing him to do anything against his will.

Del didn't want their doctors to touch him. So far, no one had hurt him, but he had no idea what they intended or if they would ever let him go, really go, not just the few brief trips off the base they had so far allowed him with a guard.

He said only, "I update them when I go home."

"Hmmm." Baxton skimmed his hand through a holo hovering above the table.

Across the room, the wall shimmered and vanished, leaving a doorway. It bothered Del to see exits appear and disappear that way and left him feeling even more unbalanced. He had spent his life in a culture where doors swung open.

Mac Tyler walked inside and nodded to them. "Good afternoon, Your Highness. Major Baxton." A bit more than average height, with a lean build, Mac had regular features, hazel eyes, and brown hair. Although he came across as unassuming, it didn't fool Del. Mac's low-key exterior masked the intellect of a sharp negotiator.

Baxton nodded to the older man. "Good to see you, Mac." He didn't look the least surprised, and Del suspected he had signaled Mac when he brushed the table. Del always felt on guard here, and it exhausted him, especially because these people were older, more experienced, and savvier than him in just about every damn thing on their world.

Mac pulled out a chair and settled his lanky frame at the table. "I'm going to pick up some pizza," he told Del. "Would you like to come?"

Del had no absolutely desire to eat the Earth "delicacy" known as pizza. Mac and Baxton were probably doing what people here called "good cop, bad cop." Mac would rescue him, after which a relieved Del would relax with him and let slip useful information about his family. It exasperated him, but anything was better than this scintillating conversation with Major Baxton.

"I like, yes," Del said to Mac. He glanced at the major. "If we are done?"

"We can continue later," Baxton told him.

Del sincerely hoped not.

"It's stupid," Del said. He and Mac were walking down a hallway of the Annapolis Military Complex, which served Allied Space Command.

"They ask the same questions over and over," Del said. Instead of English, he was speaking Skolian Flag, his own tongue, a language his people had developed to bridge their many cultures. His ire welled up. "They want their doctors to examine me to see what they can learn about me and, well, I don't know what."

"They're frustrated," Mac said. "You won't do what they want."

Del slanted a look at him. "You're not doing your job."

Mac smiled. "My job?"

"You're supposed to trick me into a false sense of security and get me talking."

Mac didn't even deny it, "I guess my heart's not in this." Although he spoke as if he were joking, he sounded as if he meant it.

They continued on, Mac lost in his thoughts, leaving Del to his. It was one reason Del liked him despite their awkward situation; they didn't have to converse unless they really felt like it.

Del had met Mac when Earth's military had taken control of Del's home world last year. It still angered Del to think about it. His home was part of the Skolian Imperialate, an interstellar civilization that shared the stars with the Allied Worlds of Earth, supposedly as friends. Hoping to ease the strain, Earth's leaders had sent Mac as a "consultant" to establish good relations with Del's family. The tie-in was music; Del, his father, and one of his brothers were singers. Mac worked in the music business now, but he had been an Air Force major before he retired, which meant he also understood the military.

Although Del didn't usually get along well with military types, he liked Mac. The former major treated him fairly, and he didn't criticize or judge. Del could even forget his Air Force background because Mac didn't look the part. Today Mac had on dark slacks and a dress shirt, more formal than his usual pullover and mesh-jeans.

"Are you going somewhere?" Del asked.

Mac glanced at him. "Later. I have an appointment in D.C."

"More consulting?"

"No, not that." Mac smiled. "You're my only military job."

"What," Del said sourly. "Babysitting a captive prince?"

"You're not a captive."

"Fine. Then I want a berth on the next ship off this planet."

He expected Mac to come up with an excuse, the way the brass here at the base always did when Del pushed them to let him go. Instead, Mac said, "It may be sooner than you think. Your government is stepping up the pressure on us." Wryly he added, "You can always tell it's tensing up around here when people start ordering a lot of pizza."

"You know, I don't mean to offend," Del said, feeling awkward. "But I really don't like pizza." He slowed down as they reached a cross hall. "Would you mind if I went back to my rooms instead?"

"No problem." Mac seemed a little relieved, making Del wonder if he didn't like his babysitting job any more than Del liked being babysat.

"I'm working on a song," Del added.

Mac's interest perked up. "Mind if I listen?"

Even after knowing Mac for weeks, Del still felt that moment of shock, that this former Air Force major enjoyed his music. He knew the military had hired Mac to "like" it, but he would sense it if Mac were feigning his interest. Del was an empath.

It always amazed Del the strange ideas people had about empaths. He wasn't like a sponge that soaked up every emotion from the people around him. In fact, he shielded his mind to keep out their moods. When he did pick up something, he was never certain if he interpreted it right. Knowing someone's mood didn't explain why they felt that way. But as he had become more comfortable with Mac, he had relaxed his mental shields and discovered Mac genuinely enjoyed his singing. Del still didn't trust him, but he didn't resent his company, either. No one else wanted to hear Del sing. Or screech, as one of his brothers so kindly put it.

"Sure," Del said. "You can listen. I call the song 'No Answers.' "

Mac had always liked Del's rooms. No stark quarters here; Del had changed his apartment to evoke his home on the world Lyshriol. His wall panels showed views of the Backbone Mountains against a blue-violet sky. A Lyshrioli carpet covered the floor in swirls of green and gold, and red-glass vases graced the tables. It was a slice of Shangri-la hidden within the bleak walls of the Annapolis Military Complex.

Del leaned over an icer panel in the wall. "Want a beer?"

Mac settled in an armchair. "Sure." He had to remind himself that the "boy" offering him alcohol was legally old enough to drink.

Del might be young, but he sang like no one else. After spending so many years in the music business, Mac knew what the entertainment conglomerates looked for--and Del had it in bucketfuls. The holocam would love his face. Usually he looked like a scowling angel, but when he smiled, it was as if a light went on. Mac had seen women stutter to a halt at the sight. The violet color of his eyes and metallic quality of his eyelashes enthralled people, especially because they didn't occur naturally on Earth; they came from changes his forefathers had made to their genome. So did the wine-red color of his hair, which tousled in curls down his neck and on his forehead, sun-streaked with gold. His leanly muscled build had a lithe grace that would translate well into holographic media.

Of course, Mac could never send Del to an audition. The idea of a Ruby prince loose in the decadent ethos of the holo-rock industry broke him out in a sweat. It would be a security nightmare. Which was a shame, because Del was probably the most gifted rock singer Mac had ever met.

"Here they come." Del grabbed two bottles as they slid into the icer tray. He spun around and tossed one at Mac. "Catch!"

"Hey!" Mac grabbed at the missile, fumbled the catch, and cursed as it slipped through his fingers. The bottle looked like glass, but when it hit the floor, it bounced. He jumped out of his chair and managed to grab it on the fourth bounce.

Del grinned at him. "Sorry."

Sorry, hell. Mac grumpily scraped the bottle's tab as he dropped back into his chair. His infernal drink didn't open, it just hissed as it released gas from the frothed-up contents.

Del sprawled in a chair across from Mac with his legs stretched across the carpet. His beer, which hadn't been cavorting on the floor, opened right away. He took a long swallow, then lowered the bottle and regarded Mac smugly.

"You know," Mac said, "you can be extremely annoying." He tugged on the tab of his bottle, and it finally deigned to snap open. He took a long pull of his drink.

Del laughed. "I keep you awake."

Mac just grunted. "So what's this new song?"

Del's smile faded, replaced by a pensive look. "I'm still working on the lyrics. Tabor did the music for me."

"Tabor? Who is that?"

"Mac! You introduced us. Jud Taborian."

"Oh. Jud." Mac vaguely recalled running into Jud at some over-priced cocktail bar in Washington, D.C. That had been the first time Mac wrangled permission to take Del off base, so he had shown the prince around town. Mac barely knew Jud, though. The young fellow was a composer in the undercity music scene, which hadn't even dented the more lucrative planetary venues or bigger offworld markets. Many of its artists were mediocre or actively rotten, but a few were brilliant, and they all challenged accepted norms. Some tried to evoke the rock of earlier, less civilized eras. Although privately Mac agreed that present day music had become so "civilized," it was suffocating in its own conservatism, he couldn't sell musical anarchists to the conglomerates.

"I've been talking with Jud over the mesh." Del put his beer on the table and rummaged in a blue box he had left there. "He sent me this tech-tick." He pulled out a silver oval the size of his hand and squinted at it. More to himself than Mac, he added, "If I can just figure out how to use it."

"You've never used a ticker?" Mac knew Del had the device because Jud had sent it to Mac. The security people at the base didn't want Del giving out his address, so Mac let the prince use his for correspondence. Security had to clear any packages Del received, anyway. In fact, when Mac took Del off base, he acted as his guard and carried monitors that continually analyzed everything around them.

"I'd never even heard of a ticker," Del said. "Not before Jud gave me this one."

That surprised Mac. "Then how do you compose music?"

"At home, I'd hum the melody I wanted for a drummel player," Del said. "He'd figure out how to accompany me. Or I'd tell him the lyrics and he'd come up with something."

Drummel? Mac thought back to the instruments he had seen in Del's village. "You mean you've only played with those harp-guitar things?" Although Del had grown up in a rural community, he had mesh access to the resources of an interstellar empire. "No other media? No morphers?"

"Why bother?" Del shrugged. "I didn't really listen to offworld music. It's too much to sort through, and I haven't liked what I heard." His smile flashed. "Though if I'd picked up the undercity, that I would have listened to."

"I can imagine." No wonder Del sang so well. With no media enhancement, he'd had no choice but to learn real technique.

Del studied the ticker. "Jud says I can edit the music he put on here. But I have no idea how." He tapped a button, and music played, slow and haunting, in a minor key, lyrical but with a raw edge, as if it were strumming under a violet moon.

"I like that," Mac said.

"The melody is right . . ." Del sat listening, his head cocked to one side. "The drums are too heavy, though."

Mac liked the driven quality of the drums, but he was curious to hear what Del would do. "I can show you how to edit the song."

Del let the music fade away. "You know how to do that?"

"It's my job."

Del blinked at him. "I thought you were an agent."

"I'm called a front-liner," Mac said. "I get auditions and contracts for my clients. To sell their music, I need to understand what they do. I can't sing or compose, but I'm pretty good with the technical side."

"Then, yeah." Del grinned. "Show me."

They sat together at the table while Mac taught him how to use the ticker. When Del achieved the result he wanted, the instrumentals for the song had a beautifully eerie quality.

"It's good," Mac said. "Better than the usual undercity work."

Del shot him an annoyed look. "Just because you don't like undercity music, that doesn't make the musicians hacks."

"Oh come on. It's the quality I'm talking about."

"Why?" Del demanded. "Because they don't follow the boring mainstream?"

"No," Mac said. "Because a lot of them can't sing, play, or compose worth shit."

Del waved his hand as if to brush away the comment. But he didn't deny it. He was too accomplished a musician not to realize that for some, going undercity was little more than an attempt to define a lack of talent as progressive. The scene had produced some remarkable music, but they had also put out some of the worst dreck Mac had ever heard.

"You can sing circles around them," Mac said.

Del made a disgusted sound. "I doubt it."

It wasn't the first time Mac had heard Del make derogatory references to his own singing. He didn't understand why the youth felt that way. Del had no sense of his own talent. He was probably Mac's greatest find--and Mac couldn't do a damn thing with that discovery.

Well, almost nothing. He could listen. "So how does the song itself go?"

Del drummed his fingers on the ticker, set the oval on the table, then picked it up again. "I can't sing without something to hold."

Del wasn't the first vocalist Mac had seen who didn't know what to do with his hands while he sang. Mac almost laughed, thinking that some did have ideas, but they couldn't get away with it. The censors would come down on them like the proverbial ton of plutonium.

"Sing into the ticker," Mac said. "It'll record you. Then you can listen to your voice."

"Oh. All right." Del flicked on the ticker, looking self-conscious. "This is only a rough cut of the vocals."

The music began with an exquisite and simple melody played by only a harp, from what sounded like a Gregorian chant. When it finished, the guitar riff played that started the music Mac had helped Del edit.

And Del sang.

His lyrics weren't the formulaic doggerel expected in the modern day universe of popular music. He varied the syllables more per line, sometimes drawing out words, other times rushing them. He used repetition to deepen the song rather than following a formula, and he gave the verses a freer form than current mainstream work:

No answers live in here,
No answers in this vault,
This sterling vault of fear,
This vault of steel tears,

Tell me now before I fall
Release me from this velvet pall
Tell me now before I fall
Take me now, break through my wall

No answers will rescue time
No answers in this grave
This wavering crypt sublime
This crypt whispering in vines

He stopped, staring at the ticker, his lashes shading his eyes. "It's still rough," he said, as if apologizing.

"I like it." Mac wondered at the dark edge to the lyrics. Del wrote in a range of styles, from danceable tunes to ballads to hard-driving blasts. Sometimes he came out with these eerily fascinating pieces. Although the major labels probably wouldn't consider them commercial, Mac thought they had a lot more to them than the pabulum produced for popular markets.

"I've no idea what it means, though," Mac added.

"I suppose it's about never knowing answers even after you die. Or maybe that's what kills you." Del tapped his fingers on the ticker. "I don't like the third part. The first line is too long. 'Rescue' clunks. And 'Wavering crypt sublime' is idiotic."

"Why?" Mac asked, intrigued. "The sounds fit."

"The sounds, yeah. But the words are dumb. Crypts don't waver." He tilted his head. "Winnowing. Winnowing crypt sublime."

Mac smiled. "Crypts don't winnow, either."

"Sure they do. They winnow you out of life." Del pointed the ticker at Mac. "You can live for decades and never find answers." He lowered his arm. "Until death winnows you out of humanity and makes room for someone more useful."

Mac spoke quietly. "I hope you don't see yourself that way."

Del just shook his head. He had that far-off look that came when he wanted to practice. "I need to work."

"Would you like me to go?"

"I don't mind if you listen," Del said. "But it can get pretty boring when I'm working on a song. I just go over and over the same parts."

"It's not boring for me," Mac said. "I'd like to stay."

"Well sure, then." Del got up and walked around, holding the ticker. And he sang. He kept changing words, pacing like a caged lion. He sang a verse fluidly, then snarled the chorus. Yet somehow it all fit.

Although Mac liked to watch him sing, he knew it made Del self-conscious. So he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, enjoying the music. It was easy to submerge into Del's rich voice. The youth had trained his entire life, using techniques passed through generations in his family. Although Del could sing opera exquisitely, he preferred a far different style. He could croon one line, scream the next, wail and moan, then stroke the notes as if they were velvet, all without harming his voice. No one did anything that commercially risky in the mainstream, but undercity artists threw in all sorts of noise. Mac knew why Del had fascinated them that night in the bar; he easily achieved what they struggled to attain because he had the technique they lacked. To break the rules, they had to master them first.

Del wanted nothing more than to sing. He didn't care about the politics surrounding him. Although no one had physically hurt Del, Mac knew he had suffered emotionally. His people were torn by hostilities that had begun long ago, when humanity splintered into three civilizations: the Allied Worlds of Earth; Del's people of the Skolian Imperialate; and the Trader Empire. The Skolians and Traders had just fought a brutal war that had nearly destroyed them both and ravaged Del's family.

The Allied government had remained neutral, safe in their isolationism, but they agreed to shelter Del's family on Earth. When the war ended with no victor, Earth had feared the Skolians and Traders would send their world-slagging armies back out, again and again, until they wiped out humanity. So they refused to release Del's family. It did no good; the Skolians just sent in a commando team and pulled them out, all except Del, who happened to be apart from the others. So here Del remained, while Earth's government argued over what the blazes to do with him. Some thought having Del gave them a bargaining point with the Skolians. Others wanted to let him go and be done with the whole mess. Personally Mac didn't see the point in keeping him. What would they tell his family, the Ruby Dynasty--that if they started another war, they would never see their youngest son again? The bellicose Skolians were more likely to attack than bargain . . .

"Hey!" Del said. "You awake?"

Mac opened his eyes drowsily. "Just drifting."

"Admit it," Del said, laughing. "I bored you to sleep."

"Never." Mac stood up, stretching his arms. "I do have to go, though. I have a client who is auditioning today."

Del regarded him curiously. "What sort of audition?"

"It's with Prime-Nova Media, for a holo-vid cube."

"Oh. Well." Del squinted at him. "Good."

He smiled at Del's attempt to look as if he knew what the hell Mac had just said. "You've watched holo-vids, haven't you?"

"Not really. I see people playing them, but I don't stop to listen." Awkwardly Del said, "I don't want to intrude."

"You should see one. You'd enjoy it." Mac thought for a moment. "Would you like to watch the audition?" He had wrangled permission to take Del off the base by arguing that it reinforced their claim Del was a guest rather than a prisoner. He wanted to give Del at least those limited excursions; he felt like a cretin treating this youth as a prisoner when Del had never done anything to anyone.

He motioned at Del's ticker. "If we can get some mesh-box space, we could tech up a few holos for your cuts."

Del laughed, his eyes lit with interest. "I have no idea what you just said, but yeah, I'd like to go with you."

Mac grinned. "Come on. Let's go show you what I just said."

They headed out, into the freedom of a late morning turning red and gold with autumn.

II: Prime-Nova

Del had never seen even one mesh-media studio, let alone a whole building of them. The Prime-Nova offices were on Wisconsin Avenue across from the Washington Arts Center, which had begun as the Washington Ballet in the twentieth century and grown until it devoured several city blocks. Mac enthusiastically informed him that the area was "a vibrant media hub rivaling New York and L.A." Del had no clue what that meant, but he liked the place.

No ground traffic bothered them; the "streets" consisted of plazas and gardens designed for pedestrians. The widely spaced buildings sported glossy sides that projected holos of landscapes, clouds, abstract art, or gigantic images of celebrities. A few blocks south, the gold arch of a mag-rail curved against the blue sky, and a sleek bullet car whizzed along it. Farther down Wisconsin Avenue, the National Cathedral rose elegantly above a plaza lush with trees.

The lobby of the Prime-Nova building gleamed with gold and bronze metal. The receptionist at the circular counter was an artificial intelligence, or AI. He initially presented as a man, but when Mac spoke, the holo rippled and re-formed as a beautiful woman with hair the color of marigolds.

"Go right up, Mister Tyler," she said in dulcet tones. "You're expected." She turned her laser-light smile on Del. "Welcome, Mister Neil. Good luck with your audition."

"Neil?" Del asked. It was weird talking to an image. He wondered what sex it turned into if both a man and a woman came up to the counter, or how it guessed a visitor's sexual preferences.

"This isn't Craig Neil," Mac told the holo. "Craig should be here soon. Please send him up when he arrives."

"Of course." Her voice was so well modulated, Del couldn't read any emotion from it. "I'll need the name of your guest."

"Valdoria," Mac said. "Del Valdoria."

Del was grateful Mac didn't use his complete name, Del-Kurj. He had been named for his half-brother Kurj, Imperator Kurj, the man who had commanded the Skolian military. That had been before the Traders assassinated Kurj and started the war. People had considered Kurj a de facto dictator and had begun to say the same about the current Imperator, Kelric, another in Del's multitude of brothers. Kurj and Kelric: hell, even their names sounded the same. Del had no interest in being associated with the draconian measures his notorious brothers used to maintain power.

He rode upstairs with Mac in a bronzed lift. While Del looked around, intrigued by all the metal, Mac fooled with his wrist comm. Del had never understood why so many people were willing to carry mesh systems on their wrists, clothes, in their bodies, everywhere. It made him queasy, as if they were all turning into robots.

"Craig should be here," Mac muttered. A blue light flickered on the wrist-mesh.

"Maybe he's already upstairs," Del said.

"Maybe. The AI should have known, though." Mac looked up. "No messages from him."

The lift abruptly opened into a corridor with gold light for walls. Mac motioned Del forward.

"This is pretty," Del said as they walked past the shimmering holo-curtains. "Bizarre, but attractive in its own soulless way."

Mac smiled wryly. "Said like a true undercity cynic." He ushered Del through a light-curtain and into a small room. The upper half of the wall across from them consisted of a window. A control strip ran along its bottom edge, crammed with switches, screens, and lights, none of which Del understood. Mac ignored the wonderland of tech-mech equipment and strode to the window. Joining him, Del studied the room beyond. Set half a level below this booth, it had blue walls that glowed. More strange equipment was stacked or strewn everywhere.

"Damn," Mac said.

"You don't like the room?" Del asked.

"I was hoping Craig would be in it." He glanced at Del. "I have to comm him, but I don't want the Prime-Nova producer who's going to audition him to overhear that he's AWOL. I'll be down the hall. If anyone comes in, just say I'll be right back."

Mischief stirred in Del. "If you leave me alone, I could go to the starport." He would actually rather watch the audition, but he couldn't resist baiting his military-approved babysitter.

"You can't sneak out of the building," Mac growled. "Not past me. But if you try, I'm damn well never taking you anywhere again."

"Go on," Del said good-naturedly. "I'll wait. I want to look at these panels."

"Don't touch anything." With that, Mac strode out.

Del wandered around, trying to figure out the equipment. He wished he knew more about music here. He wanted to leave Earth because he was tired of the aggravating people holding him in custody, but he had no huge desire to go home.

He did miss his nephews. As much as he loved them, though, they were better off without him. He pushed away the thought, burying it with all the other painful memories he kept locked away within his heart.

Ricki Varento was always prompt. As a top producer at Prime-Nova, she had no time to be late. Or sick. Or anything else that interfered in her immensely satisfying work. She molded platinum out of slag and did the best job in the industry. She created stars. Hell, novas. If the basic material didn't glow, well, by the time she finished with them, most blazed like flipping fire-poppers. And bah on anyone who laughed at the way she talked.

Today Mac Tyler was bringing his latest slag. His clients sometimes even had talent. All too often, though, talent translated into temperamental. Ricki would break out in hives if one more petulant singer complained he was an arteest, thank you, and had no intention of "submitting to slick packaging" that cheapened his integrity or whatever. Well, hell. How did they expect the people who paid them to make money? For every pouting troublemaker, she had a hundred acts waiting for their chance. She had no time for boomallitic blasters, holo-funkers, or undercity divas. Mac knew it, and he played the game even when he didn't agree with the rules.

Some people in the industry disliked Mac on principle, because of his military background. Ricki couldn't care less. In fact, she enjoyed his company, though she never let him know, because it might give away bargaining points when they negotiated. He was good at his job, met his obligations, and showed up on time. He never laughed at how she phrased things, either, though honestly, she couldn't figure out why other people did.

If Mac brought her good prospects, she made money for Prime-Nova. More often than not, she had to turn down his clients because they lacked magnetism, beauty, or youth appeal. Beauty and youth could be arranged with enough money, though limitations existed on how much you could pretty up the slag. Talent could be faked with tech. Those acts couldn't tour worth beans, though, since their abilities consisted solely of technology.

No matter what you did with the exterior, however, innate charisma was harder to come by, some indefinable blend of traits that mesh simulations couldn't reproduce. If Mac spent more time on the aesthetics of his clients and less on their talent, he'd have more success. She suspected a bit of the arteest skulked under that professional veneer of his, too, but he didn't let it interfere, so she worked with him.

She stopped at a gold wall and touched a panel there. An opening shimmered in front of her and she walked through into the booth beyond. She expected to find both Mac and his client waiting, but only one person was there, a boy across the room with his back to her as he peered at a mesh panel.

Ricki paused, looking him over. Odd. He had no costume, or if he did, it was too bland to make much of an impression. He wore dark blue pants, a white shirt, and sports shoes. The overall effect wasn't bad, though. The pants clung to his legs and fit low on his hips, with a belt drawing attention to that portion of his anatomy. It was worth the attention; he had a good, tight bum and long, well formed legs. His shirt was too loose to reveal much of his physique, but what she saw, she liked. He wasn't overly bulked up with muscles, and he didn't look like he had any fat, either. In the holo-rock scene, thinner worked just fine.

His hair surprised her. Mainstream artists wore it short. Quite frankly, that buzzed-off style was getting old, and it had never made sense to Ricki for rock stars to look like military officers, anyway. This guy could pull off the longer style. The color of his tousled curls was just strange enough to work, like red wine streaked by the sun. The streaks looked natural, but they were obviously some weird genetic tattoo, because they had a metallic cast. Interesting. In fact, the effect was gorgeous.

Ricki folded her arms and tapped her finger against her chin. If his face matched the rest of him, she could work with this one. Maybe Mac was finally getting the aesthetics part straight. Hell, if the kid had a little talent, he could go a long way. Of course, that assumed the rest of him looked as good as what she could see. Time to find out.

"Hello," Ricki said.

The guy jumped, turned with a start--

And smiled.

Holy mother shit. He had an angel's face. Big, bedroom eyes and eyelashes luxuriant enough to make a woman jealous. He had done something to make them sparkle. But he didn't look feminine, oh no, not this one. He did have that androgynous quality that worked so well for male holo-rockers who could pull it off. The kid was a well-put-together package. Maybe she ought to offer him a contract so she could take him out, get him drunk, and take him home to find out what he could do with those full, pouting lips.

"Hello," he said.

"Hmmm." Ricki walked over, cool and slow, and he watched her with a warmth she recognized. She had on a white tunic that barely came to mid-thigh, white tights, heels, and not much else. She had no objection to him viewing the scenery; she had purchased the best body that cosmetic biosculpting could provide.

She kept her voice professional. "Are you with Mac?"

"Yes, that is right." He shifted his weight self-consciously, his hips moving with a sensual tilt she doubted he realized. She had long ago learned to sum up clients and intuit how much of their behavior came naturally. This one wasn't acting. He seemed unaware of his own body.

"Mac, he have call on comm," he said. "He come soon."

Ricki noticed two things immediately, one good, the other bad. His voice had a deep, sultry resonance; if he could sing that way, she had even more to work with. But he had a heavy accent. Sexy, yeah, but if he couldn't enunciate clearly, they had a problem. She couldn't place the accent, though it sounded French. Or maybe Irish. Or Swedish. Hell, who knew?

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, nothing." She offered her hand. "I'm Ricki Varento."

"Del," he said. "Del Valdoria." If her name meant anything to him, he gave no sign.

Valdoria. It didn't sound familiar, but she hadn't had time to look over the bio Mac had sent her. Del's hesitation before he shook her hand told her volumes. The gesture didn't come naturally. Huh. Even if he came from someplace where they didn't shake hands, he ought to know the custom, unless he had hidden on a farm in the middle of nowhere all his life. She liked his grip, though: firm, confident. The strong muscles in his hand were unexpectedly erotic. Except they didn't feel quite right. She glanced down--

What the . . . ? He had a hinge in his hand.

A memory jumped out at Ricki, the image of the knife scar on the hand of her mother's boyfriend, the man who had lived with them for a year when Ricki was eight. The scar had run down the back of his ugly-assed hand the same way this hinge thing ran down the back of Del's. She dropped his hand with a jerk.

Del was watching her face closely. He lifted his arm, showing her the hinge. "This part of me, it intends . . . what is the word? It is meant to make better my hand. My ancestors, they design it." He folded his hand in lengthwise, from his knuckles to his wrist.

"That's, uh, fine." Ricki knew perfectly well he wasn't going to hit her with his damn hand. But she didn't want to talk about that scarlike hinge, look at it, even think about it.

She said only, "You aren't from Earth?"

He lowered his arm. "Not Earth. A planet called Lyshriol."

She had never heard of it. "Is it a colony?"

"Just a few hundred thousand people. Farmers mostly."

Well, jumping Josephine. He was a farm boy, and from some offworld dump to boot. She didn't know whether to be fascinated by him or irritated with Mac for bringing her the best-looking prospect she had seen in years and not preparing him for a major audition. Most clients would have been alert the moment she came in. They would have gone into their best game, trying to impress her with their professionalism and appeal. They would have offered their holo-shots and a vid detailing their experience. Farm boy here hadn't even recognized her. He acted as if he couldn't care less.

Had Mac set this up on purpose? It sent an audacious message: We don't even have to try. This kid had better be good, or she was going to be annoyed. And irritating Ricki Varento was a good way to crash and shatter in this business.

"You're a long way from the farm," she said.

"Never far enough," he answered in a low voice.

Interesting response. "So did you bring your music?" She didn't normally ask, but given how unprepared this guy seemed, who knew what he had with him?

For a moment, he looked startled. Then he tapped a ticker on his belt. "Here, yes, I bring music."

"Great." She gave him one of her high-wattage smiles and motioned at the studio below the window. "Let's hear what you can do."

"Just like that?" he asked. "I can go down?"

"Yeah, sure." Ricki held back her frown. The kid didn't come across as stupid, but his inexperience was obvious. Either Mac was losing his edge or else he was playing hardball at a level he had never done with her before.

She pointed the lift out to Del, then stood and watched while he left the booth. The lift hummed and a moment later he walked into the mesh-tech studio below. Greg Tong must have been waiting in the cockpit, because as soon as Del appeared, Greg opened a door across the room and walked in. He hadn't turned on the audio feed to the booth, so Ricki couldn't hear them, but Greg was plainly introducing himself. Although she could have switched on the audio, it intrigued her to watch their body language. Del seemed relaxed and curious, not keyed up the way most artists were before an audition of this magnitude.

Greg took the ticker from Del and went to the wall where the michaels, bobs, and janes hung. After choosing a bronzed mike, he brought it over to Del. And that was it. Greg returned to the control room they called the cockpit and closed the door.

Ricki flicked on the line to the cockpit. "Greg?"

"Heya," he said.

"What was that all about?"

"I asked him what he needed when he sang, what configurations, all that. The usual." He snorted a laugh. "You wouldn't believe what he told me."

"Try me," Ricki said.

" 'Nothing.' Just play the music on his ticker."

"That's it?" What was Mac doing, wasting her time with someone who wasn't ready? She was tempted to tell Del to forget it. She had worked with Mac a long time, though. For the sake of that relationship, she would give this kid a few minutes.

"What's he going to sing?" she asked.

"I don't know." The comm crackled the way it did when Greg shook his head and his hair brushed the oversized collar of those metallic shirts he wore. "He's going to, uh, warm up."

"Well, hell." Ricki couldn't believe this. "He couldn't be bothered to warm up before his audition?"

"Can't say. It's not like he doesn't know what he's doing. He isn't nervous at all. It's weird."

"Why does he need a mike? The studio can pick up his voice."

"He wanted something to hold."

"Huh." Ricki didn't care if he wanted a michael, mike, or mic as it was historically called, after the antique word microphone. Added to everything else, though, it didn't help her opinion of him.

Down in the studio, Del flicked on the mike. "Hello?" His voice rumbled with a sultry quality. It sounded good even when Ricki was pissed off.

She put a comm in her ear that linked to the cockpit so she and Greg could converse without Del overhearing. Then she switched on the audio to the studio below where Del waited. "Go ahead and start," she said.

Del looked up with a jerk, then glanced around, obviously trying to figure out where her voice came from. Ricki swore under her breath.

"What did you say?" Greg asked over her ear comm.

<Nothing,> she answered. She formed the word without speaking. Sensors in her body picked up her throat motions and transmitted signals to the plug in her ear, which converted them into words and sent them to Greg.

Ricki wondered if this Del had lied about being with Mac. The front-liner wasn't even here. One minute. She would give Del one minute to convince her otherwise. Then he was out.

Del sang a note, and his voice came out clear and full. Great. He could do one note. She ought to jump for joy.

"Greg, could you play an E4?" Del said.

"Sure," Greg said over the studio comm. A tone rang out with the same pitch as Del's note. Del tried a few more and had Greg play notes afterward.

<What's he doing?> Ricki asked.

"Checking his pitch, I think," Greg said. "It's perfect, Ricki. No accompaniment, no help, nothing. Perfect pitch."

<I suppose that's good,> she allowed.

"Sure," Greg said. "It doesn't mean he can sing worth shit, but at least he'll hit the right notes."

Ricki grunted. She didn't care about perfect pitch. If the slag hit a wrong note, Greg edited it out and put in the right one. Some of her acts couldn't sing at all, and almost none of them could solo in live performances without enhancement. She had her doubts real talent existed.

A thought curled up from the recesses of Ricki's mind. There had been a time when she believed in the beauty of art for its own sake, the power of a song, some shining quality that transcended the human condition--

No. That stupid, naive nobody had learned her lesson long ago. If you let yourself be sidetracked by some supposedly higher ideal, people took advantage of you.

Down in the studio, Del quit with the single notes and did some exercise thing, ah-ah-ah, repeating the pattern higher each time. He started in a bass voice and worked smoothly into the highest baritone range. He had obviously done classical work, which was almost unheard of in the artists Ricki auditioned. Personally she found opera boring, but she knew the value of the training. Whether or not Del could translate it into a marketable holo-vid style was another story, but she was willing to give him a few more minutes.

He hit the A above middle C, a high note for a baritone. Then he headed down two octaves--and more. Ricki listened, amazed, as he went deeper until he rumbled below the bottom range of a bass. The few singers she knew who carried that voice so well had augmented vocal cords. She could tell when someone had enhancement, though, and Del sounded natural. The quality struck her most; he hit those rumbling notes with power and clarity.

<Nice,> Ricki told Greg.

"He sounds like an opera singer," Greg said.

Ricki snorted. <I've never heard one that could do rock.>

Del started with another exercise, one that jumped around more. He worked into his baritone range--

And kept going up.

Ricki listened with her mouth open while he methodically went through a man's tenor, a woman's mezzo-soprano and then soprano. The quality of his notes changed, becoming clear, like bells. His ticker added a subtle chime to accompany some of his notes. It was effective, but strange to hear such high notes from a man. He went through the exercise as if it were perfectly natural to span so many octaves.

When Del hit the A two octaves above middle C, a chill went through Ricki. That was the highest note for a female choral soprano. And he kept going. It wasn't coming as easily for him now, but he hit the notes. When he nailed high C, Ricki exhaled for the purity of the tone.

Del stopped and frowned as if displeased, though for the life of her, Ricki couldn't see why. She had no idea what he would do with that upper range; no mainstream works required it, and she doubted it would be commercially successful to have a man singing female soprano. But it was the most impressive display of useless technique she had ever heard.

"I can't believe he did that," Greg said. "Fucking high C."

<How did you add the chime?> she asked.

"I'm not playing anything," Greg said. "That's all him."

"Good Lord," Ricki muttered. She leaned over the studio comm. "Del? Why don't you sing one of your pieces?"

He glanced up, this time toward the window where she stood. "All right," he said in a deep voice, his natural speaking manner, a startling contrast to the notes he had just sung.

What he did next, Ricki couldn't define. It was subtle--and erotic. He shifted his weight, nothing more, but the way his hips moved, something in his stance, the lithe grace of his leanly muscled physique--it was all intensely sexualized without his even seeming to try at all.

And then he sang.

He crooned a rock ballad in his richest baritone, stroking the notes with his voice. His lashes closed halfway over his eyes and his hips rocked with the languorous beat. The music had that dreaming quality the young girls loved. He was practically making love to the mike. Then he snarled a line, his lips pursed as if he were furious and about to kiss someone at the same time. He caressed another phrase, then built the intensity of the song, higher, higher, until finally he screamed the last line as if he were having an orgasm, his eyes open, his legs planted wide, his elbow lifted, his head thrown back as he wailed into the mike.

Ricki sat down at the control panel. <Holy shit!>

Greg let out a whoop as Del continued his song. "You've got the genuine article here, babe! He could sing in concert. Live. That is, if he can do this in front of an audience. And sing in English."

<English?> Ricki had been so caught by Del's performance, she only now realized he was singing in some language she had never heard. Without accompaniment. Without anything: no fixes, no holos, no media, no tech, no enhancement. Nothing. That was his voice. The real thing.

"Oh, Mac, you sly, sly rat," she said, cutting the audio so Del wouldn't hear. "You set it up beautifully." Oh yes, she read his message loud and clear: This farm boy is so good, we don't have to do jack for your audition. I could take him anywhere, any place, and get him a contract.

Ricki hit the comm channel that put her through to Zachary Marksman, the Vice President for Technology, Mechanicals, and Media, otherwise known as the tech-mech king.

His voice came over the comm. "Yeah?"

"Zack, it's Ricki. I'm down in the booth for studio six."

"That's great, sweetheart." He sounded preoccupied and a little irritated. "You're hitting my emergency channel to tell me where you are?"

"You need to get your ass down here," Ricki said. "Now."

Mac stalked into the booth--and froze. Both Ricki Varento and Zachary Marksman were standing across the room by the window, facing away from him, talking in low voices. Damn. He was going to look bad enough just with Ricki after his client pulled a no-show. He couldn't reach Craig; Mac had no idea if he was dead, alive, or too drunk to show up, but whatever the reason, Mac had to deal with the fallout.

Ricki Varento, also known as the blond barracuda, hated anything that smacked of the amateur. Regardless of what he thought of her artistic integrity, or lack thereof, she was a power in the industry. He hadn't expected Zachary; clients had to pass Ricki first, before lions higher in the corporate food chain came to the feast.

Bizarrely, neither Ricki nor Zachary realized he had come in. They should have noticed if they were impatient for him and Craig to arrive. They were standing in front of the window, staring down at the studio.

"He didn't even bring a vid," Ricki was saying. "I don't know anything about his past experience."

For one stellar moment Mac thought Craig had showed up after all. Relief swept over him; maybe they could salvage this.

Then he noticed Del wasn't in the booth.

Oh, hell.

The booth had two exits. Del couldn't have gone out the way he had come in. Mac would have seen him. Nor could Del have left by the producer's entrance; it was keyed to the fingerprints, retinal scans, even brain waves of the top executives. Only one other way existed to leave the booth: the lift into the studio.

Mac gulped as he inhaled. Ricki and Zachary both turned with a jerk--and went on guard. Not annoyed or impatient as if they had been left waiting, but careful.

"Mac!" Ricki gave him a million-watt smile. Combined with her bodysculpted figure and the sweetest face she could buy, framed by gold curls, she was dynamite in her clingy dress. Dynamite, as in one of Prime-Nova's most powerful weapons.

"It's so good to see you," she said. "Do come in."

Mac felt as if he were facing a pair of tigers. Right now, a purring Ricki was even more terrifying than Ricki pissed off.

"Nice to see you," Zachary said, coming forward as he extended his hand. "We should get together more often."

Mac shook his hand, wondering what neural-meth concoction Zachary had zinged into his brain. They never "got together." They moved in completely different circles; Mac would probably asphyxiate in the rarefied atmosphere where Zachary existed.

"It's good to see you," Mac said. What the blazes was Del doing? He heard nothing from the studio. His hope stirred. Maybe they had just kicked Del out of the booth. He walked past Ricki to the window and looked down--

At his nightmare.

Del was in the studio talking to Greg Tong. The prince had a mike, and his hair was tousled as if he had been wailing one of his songs. Mac wanted to drag Del out of there and tell Prime-Nova that absolutely, under no circumstances, would Del accept a contract. Of course he didn't dare do anything that would draw that much attention. He was in a diplomatic minefield, and if he took a misstep it could blow up in his face.

He didn't believe Del had deliberately preempted Craig's spot; Del had his share of faults, but Mac had never doubted his integrity. He had probably assumed Ricki was doing what Mac had offered earlier, showing him a holo-vid studio. Zachary's presence no longer surprised Mac; the moment Ricki realized what she had in that studio, she would have called in Prime-Nova's tech-mech king.

No wonder she and Zachary were so guarded behind their friendly veneers. They wanted Del under contract. It put Mac in an impossible position. If he turned them down without asking Del, he would alienate a Ruby prince, a man who could cripple relations between Earth and Skolia with just a few words to his brother, the Imperator. Unfortunately, Mac had little doubt Del would jump at the contract once he understood what it meant, that Prime-Nova wanted him to sing, and as a career. If Del went pro, it would put a spotlight on him, inviting the attention of assassins, kidnappers, and God only knew who else. If anything happened to Del, Allied Space Command might as well just walk up to Skolia's Imperial Space Command and say, "Hey, let's have a war."

Ricki stood next to Mac, watching Del and Greg in the studio. "He has an interesting range," Ricki said.

Interesting. Right. As in a spectacular six octaves.

"You could put it that way," Mac said.

Zachary was standing on Ricki's other side. "He didn't bring a resume with him. Nothing about his experience."

Mac glanced at him. "He's lived on a farm all his life."

Ricki smirked. "What happens when you take one part very healthy farm boy, mix it with one part horny effing mother, and shake well? What a recipe."

Mac barely held back his retort. Where did she come up with this stuff? The worst of it was, she was right. Del's mix of unsophisticated innocence and sensual wickedness would be dynamite. If he ended up on the holo-rock scene, a lot of people would talk about him like that. Maybe Del would be so insulted, he would walk away. Mac doubted it, though. It mattered far more to Del to have people like his music than for them to address him with deference, particularly given how much he resented his title.

Mac didn't know how to answer. He couldn't tell them anything until he discussed it with Del--and Allied Space Command.

"Are you saying he has no experience?" Zachary asked.

Mac knew they were bargaining, trying to counter the demands they expected him to make. So he said, "That's right. None." It was true, after all. For all they knew, when faced with making a living through his music, Del might fail miserably.

Both Ricki and Zachary stared at him as if they had run into a wall. They expected tough negotiation and instead he talked down his client. Yep. No experience.

Ricki slanted a look at the VP, and he nodded slightly. She turned back to Mac. "Half his songs are in some other language." She sounded genuinely curious. "Who writes his material?"

"He does mostly," Mac said. "What did he sing in English?"

"Something about running and blue clouds," Ricki said. "Another about emeralds."

"The Crystal Suite," Mac said. "Yes, that's his." At least Del hadn't sung "Carnelians," his rant about the Trader Aristos. Although it was one of his most powerful pieces, the lyrics revealed far too much about his identity.

"Can't call it the Crystal Suite," Zachary said. "It sounds like a drug reference."

Mac wanted to throw up his hands in exasperation. Already they were appropriating Del's work. "They're his titles."

"Does he write his own music?" Ricki asked.

"The first draft," Mac said. "Jud Taborian works with him on arrangements." An idea came to Mac. "You may have heard of Jud. He's making quite a name for himself in the undercity."

A frown marred Ricki's perfect face. "I don't need any undercity assholes pulling their diva act."

Well, that was diplomatic. Mac motioned toward Del. "Just look, Ricki. He has undercity written all over him. You don't want undercity, you don't want Del."

"We didn't say we didn't want him," Zachary told him. "But you have to admit, his lack of experience is a drawback."

Mac shrugged. "That's the way it is."

Ricki and Zachary shared another of those glances. Then Ricki said, "We're willing to take a risk on this one, Mac. A firm commitment, two anthology cubes, both holo-vids."

Risk, hell. A typical vid only held ten songs. Del had enough material to fill five cubes. Vids were simple, just holographic movies that played as if the artists were in the room. Viewers could rotate them, zoom in or out, pull down a story vid, customize the songs for themselves. Prime-Nova should be offering Del a virt, or virtual reality simulation. Virt users weren't passive listeners; they participated in the holo-vid, which created a "reality" they could play with themselves. Entire communities in the mesh universe had built up around the more sophisticated virts. The interactive experience fascinated, even obsessed its fans.

Mac knew why they hadn't mentioned a virt. It was riskier to produce because it cost more. But they were also potentially much more lucrative. Of course, Del had no experience. So yeah, they were taking a risk. But even if for some reason Del had trouble providing twenty songs over the next few years, Greg and his crew could make whatever he gave them succeed. They had a lot to work with. Two holo cubes for a first-time artist was normally a good offer, but if Mac had actually been representing Del, he would have pushed for a virt on at least one, maybe both.

Today he said only, "I'll talk to him."

Zachary and Ricki waited. After a moment, Zachary said, "Prime-Nova has the longest track record in the business."

Mac didn't see his point. Yes, Prime-Nova was established. Then he realized what Zachary meant. They thought he was auditioning Del elsewhere, that he was waiting because he wanted to know who else was going to offer what. Cripes. They thought he was playing hardball.

"I'll tell him," Mac answered. "We'll get back to you."

"Mac, I've known you a long time," Zachary said. "I like you. For the sake of our relationship, we're willing to take a chance on this farm boy. We'll give you virts with both of his albums."

Hell and damnation. If Del had been anyone else, Mac would have started negotiating royalties, publishing rights, the whole game. But he couldn't make a commitment, and he sure as blazes couldn't tell them why. He didn't want Del to take the offer, but neither could he just walk away.

"I'll let him know," Mac said.

Ricki looked incredulous. "You won't get a better offer, Mac. And you sure as hell won't get the high level of backing Prime-Nova can give him."

Mac didn't doubt it. If Del had it in him to become a star, Prime-Nova could make him one. If. Sure, Del could play the undercity fringe. But succeeding on the level Prime-Nova wanted was another matter altogether, and Mac had his doubts that Del could manage that transition, especially given that he had spent so many years with no outlet for his music. The youth had no idea what it meant to conduct a professional career.

Mac kept his voice neutral. "Like I said. Del and I will talk."

Ricki's voice cooled. "I can't promise the deal will stay on the table. I've two more auditions today. A lot of boys out there want what we're offering your client."

Mac nodded, secretly relieved. If he put them off, maybe they would withdraw the deal. Then he felt guilty; he knew how much this would mean to Del, to have people not only believe in his music, but offer him the backing of a conglomerate powerhouse.

"Just give me a day," Mac said. Just a day.

She shook her head. "Even a few hours may be too long."

Mac had never seen her push this hard before. "I understand."

She and Zachary waited. When Mac said no more, Zachary let out a sharp breath. "I need an opener for Mind Mix's live concert tour. I'll give the spot to your client."

It was all Mac could do to keep his mouth from falling open. They were offering Del a tour with a top band, one of the few good enough to play live concerts? It was absurd--and it made sense. Del could, in theory, give a show people would want to hear, which was better than most of the "talent" in the Prime-Nova stable. Except Del had never performed in concert. In fact, he had never played for more than fifty people. Mind Mix played live for hundreds of thousands, even millions. Prime-Nova would be crazy to put Del under that kind of pressure so soon.

"Look," Mac said. "I appreciate that offer. It's a good one. But I have to talk this over with Del."

"Take it now or not," Zachary told him. "You walk out of here looking for a better blast, that's it. Ours is gone."

Sweat beaded on Mac's forehead. If they were following the usual procedures, this conversation was being recorded and the offer would be binding on them if he agreed. Mac knew he should be jumping at the opportunity. But blast it, he couldn't.

The hum of the lift vibrated in the booth, followed by the whisper of its door opening. Mac had one moment to panic before Del walked through the gold shimmer to their right.

"Hey, Mac." Del grinned. "The acoustics in that room, you not believe it. They are being incredible."

"Del, hello." Zachary stepped past Mac and extended his hand. "It's good to meet you. I'm Zachary Marksman, Vice President of Technology, Mechanicals, and Media."

After the slightest pause, Del shook his hand. "Hello."

Mac recognized Del's hesitation. The youth's parents may have raised their children in a rural community, but Del wasn't naive, not by a long shot. He knew vice presidents didn't just show up and introduce themselves for no reason. Suspicion flickered in his eyes, the knowledge of a prince whose acquaintance many people coveted for the status it brought them. It was ironic, because Zachary lived in the same type of world, where hopeful artists would do anything for that handshake he had just offered Del.

"We were discussing our contract offer with Mac," Ricki said smoothly. "He says he needs to discuss it with you."

Del looked from Ricki to Zachary. To Ricki. To Mac. Back to Ricki. Mac didn't miss the way Del's gaze skimmed over her voluptuous body and lingered on her face. Damn.

"What contract offer?" Del asked.

Ricki eased past Zachary, right up to Del. The vice president stepped back, giving her room to work. "Two cubes," Ricki purred. "Holo-vid and virt. And opening for Mind Mix in concert. Like it?"

"Del," Mac warned. "Don't answer. Your responses are being recorded. A yes could be interpreted as a binding contract." He doubted Del had a clue what they were talking about, but it didn't matter as long as the prince kept his mouth shut. Otherwise, Del could end up committing himself to Prime-Nova indenture.

Del's forehead furrowed. "I don't understand."

"I told them you and I need to talk it over," Mac said.

"Talk what over?" Del frowned at him, then focused on Ricki. "You want my music?" Although his voice was guarded, Mac could hear the incredulity that lay under that neutral tone.

"That's right." Ricki tapped his chest with her manicured fingernail, the blood-red polish bright against Del's snowy shirt. "We want your songs. And you. On stage. With Mind Mix."

"What is mind mix?" Del asked.

Silence greeted him. Mac didn't know whether to laugh or groan. A smile spread across Ricki's face, smooth and all too knowing, the master player sizing up an innocent lamb. "You probably don't hear them out in the edge colonies. They sing, Del. A great band. The best. And you could open for them."

"You mean sing on stage, before they come out?" Del asked.

"That's right." She splayed her hand on his chest, and he looked down, his lashes lowering over his eyes. In her sultriest voice, she added, "Would you like that?"

"Don't answer her." Mac stepped up and pushed away her hand.

She glanced indolently at Mac, then back at Del. "There's one catch, honey. You have to give us an answer now."

"Ricki," Mac warned.

Del considered him. "They want me to sing on one of those holo-vids, right? And as a warm-up for this other group?"

Mac felt as if the roof were about to fall on him. "That's right."

Del's face was hard to read. He was as guarded now with Mac as with the others. When he turned to Ricki, his eyes glinted. "Yes," he said, his voice deepening. "I do it."

"Damn it, Del!" Mac grabbed his arm and pulled him across the booth. He spoke in a low voice. "Don't say anything else. A deal like this has to be negotiated."

Del regarded him with a coldness he had never shown Mac before. "I need an expert to talk with them. You do this? Yes or no?"

Mac raked his hand through his hair. "Of course I'll do it."

"Good." Del's tension eased. He turned to Ricki and indicated Mac. "My front-liner, he work out details with you."

Ricki's smile dripped satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that."

Mac stared at her, and hoped to blazes he wasn't looking at the catalyst for an interstellar catastrophe.

III: First Step

Fitzwilliam R. McLane, aka Fitz, wasn't the only general Mac knew, but he left the others in the dust when it came to the force of his personality. His grey hair resembled iron, and his grey eyes were set under brows of the same color. He sat in his big chair behind his big desk and regarded Mac with a considering stare.

"What does it mean, exactly?" Fitz asked. "He'll sing in those things the kids watch?"

"That's right," Mac said, uncomfortable in his chair despite its smart-tech, which kept shifting the cushions, trying to relax him. "And he'll go on tour with the other band."

To Mac's surprise, Fitz smiled. "Who would have guessed? Of all the ways I thought he might find to get away from us here at the base, I never would have come up with this. I thought he'd go to the Skolian embassy when he realized we wouldn't stop him."

"I'm not so sure he wants to go home," Mac said. "Except for his sister's kids. He's been sort of surrogate father to them."

"Two boys, right?" Fitz asked. "One grown and the other--what? Ten?"

"Eight, actually," Mac said. "They use an octal system, so they say ten. The other boy is eighteen. I don't know much else; the family kept them away from our Allied delegation." Dryly he said, "We weren't exactly welcome on Del's world."

"So I gathered." Fitz tapped his desk, bringing up a screen, and flicked through a few displays. "The sister never married?"

"I don't think so." From what Mac understood, the Skolian government had interfered for some reason, something to do with her children, but he had no idea what. He was still figuring out the convoluted relationship between the Skolian Assembly and the Ruby Dynasty. The Assembly and royal family split the rule of the Imperialate, half an elected government and half dynastic. But that had only been since the war, which had ended with a bizarre twist when the Ruby Pharaoh overthrew her own government. Before that, she had been a titular ruler without political power.

From cryptic remarks Del had made, Mac gathered that in the past, the Assembly had mistreated his family in some way, spurring the pharaoh's coup at the end of the war. Politics had poisoned his family in some inscrutable Skolian way Mac had yet to figure out, but Del wouldn't talk about it.

"Do you think Del wants to stay on Earth?" Fitz asked.

"Yes, I think so, if this business with Prime-Nova works out," Mac said. "If he bombs, they'll probably drop him after his contract ends. I don't know what he'd want to do then."

Fitz sat, rubbing his chin. "How much time is involved in making and marketing these cubes?"

"His contract says he has to complete both within three years."

"And his tour?"

"It depends on how he does," Mac said. "If he plummets, they'll yank him after a few performances." He hoped he wasn't being prophetic. "Mind Mix is one of their biggest acts. They can't risk an unpopular opener."

"Do you think he will--what was the word? Plummet."

That was the billion-dollar question. Literally. "He has the talent," Mac said. "What he does with it is a different question. He's never performed in concert. He breaks rules, too, and he walks the edge of what the censors will allow. He could fail miserably." He paused. "With Prime-Nova backing him, though, he has a chance of a good career."

Fitz smiled wryly. "It isn't what you usually associate with the Ruby Dynasty."

No kidding. Mac was having trouble deciphering the general's reaction. "If you want the contract broken, we can manage. It will take lawyers, but given Del's identity, I think we can do it."

"Broken!" Fitz actually laughed. "Mac, it's brilliant. You've convinced him to stay on Earth and given him a reason to keep you around."

"You want him to do this?"

"His family can hardly accuse us of forcing him to stay if he insists on it. And he'll be right here, under our control." He considered Mac. "How does this front-liner thing work? Do you manage him, too? The more we keep you involved, the better."

Mac couldn't believe he was hearing this. "I just get him the contract. I'm not a manager. I don't have enough experience. And it would take a lot of time away from my other clients."

"But could you do it?"

Could he? Mac didn't know if it was a good idea for Del's career, and he disliked the idea of being responsible for someone so important to interstellar politics. But he had to admit it made sense. Although concentrating on Del's career would mean giving up some of his other clients, he would receive a percentage of Del's income, which could be substantial if Del succeeded.

"I might be able to," Mac said. "Assuming I could find good front-liners for my other clients. But Del would have to agree, with full knowledge that I'm reporting back to you."

"Do you think he will?"

"I don't know." Mac exhaled. "It's his safety I'm worried about. He'll be leaving the base a lot more. He should have more security than me and my monitors."

Fitz nodded. "We'll get him a full-time bodyguard. One of the teched-up Marines. With all the bioware those boys carry in their bodies, it'll be as if he has a phalanx of guards."

"You can't have a Marine hulking around him!" Mac wondered if Fitz had any clue of the life Del would be living, especially on the road. "It would be like putting a sign over Del's head saying, 'Hey, look, I'm important.' "

The general spoke wryly. "I'm not that out of it, Mac. We'll get someone who fits in. He can be part of--what do you call it? Del's staff."

"His team. He doesn't have one yet."

"Good. You can set it up," Fitz said. "We'll also need to implant a tracker in his body."

"He already has one."

Fitz snorted. "For all the good it does us. He isn't about to give us the key to one his own people put in him."

Mac could imagine Del's explosion at the idea of yet another invasion of his privacy. "He'll never agree to a second one."

"See if you can convince him. And we need Del to let his family know he's staying on Earth of his own free will."

Mac almost groaned. It would be easier to convince Del to roll naked in a hill of fire ants than to talk to his family. "I'll try. But I can't make any promises on that."

Fitz's gaze never wavered. "We'll be depending on you."

Mac had felt before as if the roof were sagging; now it was caving in. Not only did he have to worry about Del loose in the holo-vid industry, but Fitz wanted him personally responsible for the prince. Damn it, I'm a civilian. He could walk out on this. But if he did, he would antagonize people he had no wish to alienate, starting with a top-ranked general. Besides, he already felt responsible for Del.

Mac took a breath. "All right. I'll do my best."

He just hoped it didn't all come crashing down on him.

Del's living room balcony overlooked the glistening expanse of a river. In the distance, across the water, the Naval Academy basked in rays of the setting sun. The interplay of the aged light and rippled water fascinated Del.

"Brighter than the crystal caves," Del sang softly. "Sunlight glancing on the waves." He used English because he finally had a good reason to learn it. Someone wanted to sell his songs.

He kept expecting the woman Ricki to contact him and say they had made a mistake, that they weren't interested after all. Or that other person would tell him, the man. A vice president for technology, mechanicals, and media? What the blazes did that mean? Mac said "mechanicals" was a term from long ago, when mechanical devices played music. But then, Mac also claimed the deal with Prime-Nova was binding even though he hadn't finished negotiating it. To Del, it all felt as ephemeral as mist under a morning sun.

A chime sounded inside the living room, through the open doorway. With a sigh, Del turned from the gorgeous sunset and went back into his quarters.

"Lumos up," he said as he crossed to the console against the far wall. The lights brightened.

The console should have showed who contacted him, but no image floated above the comm screen. That was odd. No one knew how to reach him here except military officers, certain highly placed members of Earth's government, and Mac. Whenever his family contacted him, they had to go through lengthy protocols complicated by the fact that they all knew Earth's military was monitoring every word.

Del rolled his shoulders, working out muscle kinks. "Claude?"

"Good evening," Claude answered. He was an EI, or evolving intelligence, that the military had installed on Del's console. Del had named the EI after Claude Debussy, his favorite among the Earth composers he had so far discovered. He never felt inspired to name AIs, or artificial intelligences, which only simulated emotions, but EIs were more aware. Although he couldn't pick up their moods, they genuinely seemed to experience them. So he named the EIs.

"Who commed me?" he asked.

"I don't know," Claude said. "The comm originates in Washington, D.C., but its ID is hidden."

"Strange." Del squinted at the console. Its comm light was still glowing, which meant the mystery person hadn't cut the line. So he said, "Respond."

After a pause, Del said, "Hello?"

"Del!" A sultry female voice floated into the air. "Heya, babe."

Heya, babe? What did that mean? She sounded like the woman who had offered him the contract. With a sinking sensation, he realized he had celebrated too soon. They were going to withdraw the offer.

"Hello, Miss Varento," Del said.

Her throaty laugh wrapped around him. Any other time, that sensual response would have attracted him. Today, he could only think how much he didn't want to hear whatever she had to say next.

"Call me Ricki," she said. "After all, we're going to be working together."

Working together. Working together. Del let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Del?" she asked.

"Do you mind if I put you on visual?" he asked.

"I'd love that, babe."

A smile spread on his face. Babe, indeed. Her husky voice reminded him of the voluptuous body under that flimsy dress she had been wearing today. What inspired her to refer to him as an infant, he had no clue, but what the hell. She could talk to him that way all day if she wanted. Especially if she wore that dress.

He touched a panel, and a screen rose before him. It shimmered blue and cleared to show a starlit room with windows for walls. Beyond them, the nighttime wonderland of a city glistened in gem lights, with the mag-rail adding luminous curves to the skyline. Del found it hard to believe that long ago, buildings in Washington, D.C. had never been more than a few stories high. Now those graceful towers soared. After spending his life in a rural community, the view took his breath.

Ricki was sitting at a tall table just big enough for two people, wearing a slinky black dress that did even better things for Del's imagination than her outfit this afternoon. Her yellow hair fell to her shoulders and framed her sweet face.

More pleasant thoughts replaced Del's earlier concerns. "So what are you doing, Ricki, all by yourself?"

"I'm in a private room on top of the Star Tower Sheraton." Her voice purred. "I was thinking this would be just the place to celebrate your new relationship with Prime-Nova." A pout touched her face. "But you're there and I'm here."

"Celebrations," Del murmured, "are better with two people."

She sipped her drink, her lips molding to the glass. Then she licked away the moisture. "If you come soon enough, I'll be here."

Del wondered if she offered to celebrate this way with all her new acts. He couldn't sense her mood from here; his empathic ability depended on her brain waves, which could only affect him close up. He might be fooling himself, but he didn't think such "celebrations" were her usual mode. Then again, maybe he should hope she was that casual about her relationships. Then she wouldn't expect more of a commitment than he could give. Ricki was the kind of woman you enjoyed for the night, like a fine wine. Del smiled. No, not wine. Whiskey.

His voice deepened, thickening his accent. "Maybe I come celebrate with you."

"Talk like that," Ricki murmured, "and I may stay here all night." She took another swallow of her drink. "Ciao, baby." With that, she cut the connection.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Chow baby?"

An idea came to him and he smiled. He would wear those pants that had flustered his female interrogator so much, she forgot her questions. He hadn't figured out why they affected her that way, but he had sensed her response the moment he entered the room.

It would be interesting to see what happened when he tried to leave the base tonight.

The maglev stop in the Annapolis complex was underground. No trains actually went there; the real station was outside the base. A whiz-car took people to the edge of the base, where they could leave the grounds and board the maglev.

Del rode in a single-seater with the bubble open so he could relax while the wind tossed his hair. He had on his leather jacket. The Allied military had grudgingly bought it for him when he pointed out they cut him off from his personal funds by denying him access to the interstellar meshes. He needed a jacket. So rather than letting him use the offworld meshes, they paid for the jacket. It was ridiculous. He could buy a million jackets with his personal funds. If he did manage to see Ricki tonight, he could ask her for access to an offworld mesh. It irked him just as much, though, that he had those funds only because he was a member of the Ruby Dynasty. So if Earth's military didn't buy his jackets, the Ruby Dynasty did. Either way it bothered him. If this holo-vid business worked out, he might earn his own money. Then he'd buy his jackets with his own income.

After the car stopped at the edge of the base, Del swung out and strolled to the automated guard booth. The voice of an AI came out of a panel on its front. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but you aren't cleared to leave the base."

"I have to go," Del said. "I have an appointment."

Silence followed his words. Then the AI said, "One moment."

Del grinned. He'd actually flummoxed it this time.

A new voice came out of the comm. "Your Highness, this is General Fitz McLane. I understand you wish to leave the base?"

Hah. The AI had called in the big gun. "That's right," Del said. "I have meeting with my producer."

"At night?" The general didn't hide his skepticism.

"She's at the Star Tower Sheraton."

"She?"

Del regarded the comm smugly, well aware the general could see him even if he couldn't see Fitz. "Yeah. She."

"It isn't safe for you to travel alone."

"I'm a grown man, General. I take care of myself."

"You're also a Ruby Heir," Fitz said. "Anything that happens to you could significantly impact relations between our peoples."

Del crossed his arms. "But holding me prisoner won't impact those relations?"

The ensuing silence surprised him. The last time he had used that line, the general had given him some drill about "establishing a baseline database we can use to determine the optimum approach in our interface with the Skolian institutions most affected by your presence on Earth." Which as far as Del could tell, was Fitz-speak for "tell us Skolian secrets." Fitz's silence made Del wonder if the Skolian government had stepped up their pressure to let him go.

"I'll send you a flycar," Fitz said. "With a pilot and a bodyguard. They will take you to your appointment and bring you back."

Del tried to look innocent, just to annoy Fitz. "What if I don't come back tonight?"

The general answered sourly. "As long as you don't mind having your guards in the room."

"But I do mind."

"That's unfortunate, then."

For flaming sake. He couldn't enjoy his evening if he had Marines hulking over him. "I suppose I can contact Ricki. Tell her that General Fitz McLane insists I bring his thugs with me. Ah. My apology. I have problem with English. I mean bodyguard."

"Can it, Valdoria." Fitz sounded as irritated as Del felt with him. It just annoyed Del more. Fitz could have activated the visual. Leaving Del staring at nothing was another way of Fitz asserting his authority.

After a while, Del said, "General?"

"I'm sending Mac Tyler to meet you," Fitz said. "With the flycar and guards."

Del blinked. "All right." Mac he could deal with.

* * *

"That isn't the point!" Mac looked as if he wanted to shake Del. They were sitting in the back seat of the flycar. The night sped by outside the window behind Mac, sparkling with gold and white lights as they soared over the city.

"I don't care about the damn guards," Mac said. "They can't protect you from the real danger. She's a barracuda, Del. She'll devour you."

Del smiled. "I have no idea what is barracuda."

"It's a vicious fish with big jaws that eats little fish."

Del was relaxed on the other end of the seat. It was a nice car, upholstered in ruddy colors with comfortable cushions. The pilot and a Marine were up front, pretending they couldn't hear every word Mac and Del said.

"Ricki," Del told him, "is definitely not a fish."

"Quit smirking like a tomcat licking his chops," Mac told him. "And don't say you don't know what that means. You figured it out the first time you saw one of those cats prowling around the base. You've been on a farm your whole life, Del, surrounded by sweet country girls. You have no idea what you're letting yourself in for if you meet Ricki tonight."

Del couldn't help but laugh. "If anyone but you say that to me, I probably sock him in the face. What, you think I am some innocent she can shred? I have a flash for you. Us farm folk are not so naive as you think." In a less amused voice, he added, "And I was never sweet."

Mac let out a breath. "If I gave insult, I apologize. But I would tell anyone this. Stay away from her."

"Why?" Del asked, genuinely curious. "What you think she will do to me?"

"She'll use you like a new toy," Mac said. "When she gets tired of you, she'll drop you faster than a child drops a glass vase. She won't care what breaks."

Del shrugged. "I'm going to meet a beautiful, intriguing woman for a night. Nothing more. I don't want anything more." After a moment, he said, "I am not capable of more."

Mac answered quietly. "You're capable of a great deal."

Del didn't want to talk about it. "Maybe she really just want to talk business."

"Yeah, right."

"You never know."

"Del, listen. She moves in a crowd you want to stay away from. They're beautiful, fast-living, wealthy--and toxic. The drugs alone will scorch your brain, and that doesn't touch the other bizarre stuff they're into."

Del's good mood faded. "The drugs don't matter. Not the alcohol, either. Neither affects me."

Mac didn't look the least convinced. "I don't care how high your tolerance is. Anyone can get drilled."

Del really didn't want to go into this. But he owed it to Mac, who had changed his life today and agreed to negotiate for him despite how much he wanted Del to refuse that contract. Del knew. Mac's apprehension had been so strong, it had come through even when Del had his empathic shields at full force.

Del switched into the Skolian Flag so he wouldn't struggle as much just to speak. "I don't have a high tolerance. I can't get drunk, and certain drugs don't affect me, particularly Metropoli-line hallucinogens and neuro-psillic amphetamines. I carry several nanomed series in my body that deactivate drugs and alcohol."

Mac stared at him. "Is that why you didn't want our doctors examining you more?"

Del shifted his weight. "Yes, partly."

"Aren't those treatments dangerous? They might deactivate a chemical your body needs." Mac hesitated. "I thought it was only done for drug addicts."

"I wasn't an addict," Del said. At least, he hadn't been then, though gods only knew where he might have ended up. "It's more dangerous for me not to have the nanos." He stared at his hands where they rested in his lap. "All these medical wonders we put in our bodies--they backfire sometimes."

Mac's voice went quiet. "What happened?"

It was a moment before Del could answer. "When I was younger, I experimented with tau-kickers." He looked back at Mac. "I thought they would make me a better artist. Expand my mind." In a brittle voice, he added, "I was stupid."

"Tau-kickers? What are those?"

Del wished he were anywhere but here, telling Mac his past. "Hallucinogens manufactured in mesh-slums on the world Metropoli." He almost stopped, but then he said, "Do you remember the glitter in the air on Lyshriol?"

Mac paused at the change of topic. "The pollen?"

"That's right. It's everywhere, the ground, air, water. You can't always see it, but it saturates the biosphere. That's why the clouds look blue. It's sort of like food dye."

"Ah. Yes, I remember." Mac smiled wryly. "My people had to get treatments so we didn't get sick from drinking the water."

Del had guessed as much. "Those of us who live there are born with protections. We have self-replicating molecules in our bodies to deal with it, like tiny chemical laboratories. A mother passes them to her child in the womb." Bitterly, he said, "I also carry nanomeds in my body that keep me healthy. Hell, I could live two centuries."

Mac was watching him closely. "I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me."

Del took a breath. "All these molecular wonders we put in our bodies--they're designed to work together. So they don't interact in a bad way and harm us."

Mac waited. Then he said, "But?"

Del stared at the back of the driver's head. "Sometimes even the best medicine doesn't work." He shrugged as if he didn't care, but he doubted he fooled Mac. "When I took the kickers, they kicked all right. They had some bizarre reaction with the nanomeds in my body. Once it started, it cascaded. My lungs, blood vessels, lymph, neural, hell, my breathing--it all went wild. Then everything shut down."

"Good Lord." Mac stared at him. "How did you survive?"

Del met his gaze. "I didn't."

Mac blinked. "You look alive to me."

Del turned to stare out the window next to him. "The doctors revived me. Eventually."

Silence.

Finally Mac said, "And they gave you new meds to counter any drugs the doctors thought could kill you?"

"That's right." Del watched the city glitter below. "Alcohol makes me more susceptible, so they took care of that, too." The doctors couldn't remove his nanomeds; their interactions with his body had become so complicated, it was impossible to take them out completely. And without them, ironically, he would no longer have protection against side-effects from the treatments that countered his susceptibility to drugs.

"You seem so healthy," Mac said. "So unaffected."

"I am healthy." Del couldn't say he was unaffected. It had been a horrific time in his life. Although his family was the royal dynasty of Skolia, the government had controlled their lives until just recently. Del had learned the hard way how those with power could exploit the vulnerabilities of people they sought to command.

Mac spoke gently. "There's more, isn't there?"

Del shook his head. He couldn't talk anymore. He was also aware of the general's men in the flycar. He doubted Allied Space Command cared about his personal hells; they wanted secrets that would impact their balance of power with Skolia. And he did know a few "little things," such as, oh, how far his brother the Imperator would go in negotiating the presence of Earth's military forces in Skolian space. Del would never tell the Allieds. So instead they knew he had been treated for drug use. That would fit right in with General Fitz McLane's low opinion of him. Del wished he had kept his mouth shut. He closed the memories away, trying to hide them where they couldn't hurt him.

"Just be careful," Mac said. When Del glanced at him, Mac smiled ruefully. "It's hard for me to imagine a Ruby prince in the holo-rock industry."

Del laughed without humor. "I'm sure for my family, it's hard to imagine anyone paying me to do this."

"Really?" Mac seemed genuinely surprised. "They know how you sing."

"They think I'm just making noise. They've never heard of rock, and I doubt they'd care if they knew about it." Del shook his head. "I'm not like them. I'm no prodigy or great fighter pilot. I'll never have a degree in anything. I can't teach or do scholarship or be a delegate in Assembly." Such simple words, and they hurt so much. "All I ever wanted was my music. And maybe even to have people want to hear it." Softly he said, "You gave me that today. Let me enjoy it while it lasts."

Mac's gaze never wavered. "You don't have to be a genius or world leader to consider your life worthwhile."

"Try living in my family," Del said with a bitterness he didn't want to feel. "Try being the only failure out of all those extraordinary people. Then tell me that."

"Del--"

He lifted his hand to stop Mac. He couldn't take any more. With a jerk, he indicated a gold tower below them. "Why are we circling that?"

Mercifully, Mac let go of his other questions. "That's the Star Tower. We're in a holding pattern to land on the roof flyport."

"Oh." Del set his hand down.

In moments, the flycar was descending. As it landed on the roof, Mac said, "I had quite a talk with General McLane tonight."

Del winced. "I'm afraid to ask about what."

Mac didn't tiptoe around the subject. "We'd like you to keep your identity a secret. The fewer people who know, the easier it will be to protect you."

The request didn't surprise Del. Nor did he object, even if it did come from the authoritarian McLane. He had no desire to have his name associated with his famous kin. If he had some small measure of success, he wanted it to come from his singing, not because he was a member of the Ruby Dynasty.

"I hadn't planned on telling anyone," Del said.

Someone swung open his door, and he looked up to see his bodyguard standing outside. The man had no uniform, just casual slacks and a holo-mesh shirt, but he had military emblazoned all over him, from his buzzed hair to his rigid posture.

Del glared at Mac. "He's not coming with me."

"You can't go alone," Mac said. When Del scowled, he added, "No, he won't be on your date with Ricki. He'll escort you into the Sheraton. After they take you to Ricki, he'll join the guards in the key-room for the penthouse Prime-Nova keeps here." Dryly he added, "Prime-Nova has better security than we do at the base."

"What for?" Del asked, intrigued.

"Entertainment is a huge business," Mac said. "And Prime-Nova is one of the largest conglomerates. A lot of people want to be where you are right now."

Del wasn't sure what to think about that, but it reminded him of the idealized fantasy so many people had of Ruby Heirs. They had no idea. Those fantasies had nothing to do with reality.

He stepped out of the flycar and stood next to the Marine. Looking up at the large fellow, he said, "Hello." He would have expected Fitz to choose someone less obvious, but then, he knew so little about life here, he had no idea what was obvious.

"Good evening, Your Highness," the man rumbled.

"You better not call me 'Highness' once we're inside," Del said.

"I won't," the Marine assured him.

Del hesitated, not wanting to feel intimidated by his own guard. "What's your name?"

"Sergeant Cameron."

Del nodded awkwardly to the giant. Then he turned to Mac, who was still in the car. "Thanks for talking to me."

Mac scooted over to Del's side. "Just remember what I said."

Del grinned. "Aren't you worried about Ricki, stuck with a reprobate like me?"

Mac smiled. "Call me tomorrow, all right? We need to talk about your contract."

"Sure." Del lifted his hand in farewell.

Then he headed into the Star Tower.

IV: Tower of Dreams

Ricki saw him in the window first. She was sitting in her tall chair, facing the glass wall, looking over the glistening city. And there, reflected in the glass, was an even more appealing vision: Del, walking into the room.

She turned around as the wall behind Del re-formed, leaving them alone in the Sky Room. He had looked good earlier today, but that was nothing compared to now. His tailored leather jacket was deliciously sinful, fitting his lean frame perfectly. He had left it unfastened, revealing a white shirt open at the neck just enough to show a triangle of chest hair.

Careful, Ricki thought. She never let people affect her too much, even just by noticing them. It gave them control, which meant the power to hurt her. She was a cool operator, smooth and unruffled, and she ignored the misguided poets who claimed they saw past her icy exterior to a lonely soul. She wasn't affected by the way those black leather pants clung to Del's legs. And that belt made out of starship ring fittings that rested so low on his hips, hugging his anatomy--goodness. His boots had just enough heel to shift his hips forward, accenting his sensual build. His hair, well that was just protein . . . gleaming, luxuriant protein that framed his face, his pouting mouth, and those huge eyes, as if he were some beautiful, wicked angel who could snarl like a devil.

Oh my.

"Hello," Ricki purred.

Del stalked over and slid into the other chair at the table. Tilting his head toward the window, he said, "That's quite a view." Without taking his eyes off her, he added, "Spectacular, in fact."

Ah, sweet seduction. She smiled at him. "That's why Prime-Nova keeps this suite."

A hum came from a glimmering mesh on the table, followed by the voice of the human bartender who served the penthouse. "Would your guest care for a drink, Ms. Varento?"

Ricki raised her eyebrow at Del.

"Orange juice," Del said.

Ricki laughed softly. "You may look like a lethal weapon, but I think the farm boy is still in there." She spoke into the comm. "Jack, bring him up one like you did for me, double time."

"Right away, ma'am."

"Like yours?" Looking disconcerted, Del tapped her cut-crystal glass. "That drink is blue."

"Blue as a Night Dazer, which is what it's called." It was such a dumb name, it sounded like something she would come up with. "Mostly it's Southern Comfort."

Del laughed in his rumbling voice. "Whose comfort?"

"Haven't you had whiskey before?"

His smile vanished. "Yes."

Huh. What caused that reaction? "But not lately?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I not remember."

"You'll like this one."

He didn't answer, he just looked restlessly around the room. His gaze came to rest on the spectacular view outside the tower. "Nothing is like this where I live."

"You come from a place called Lyshriol, right?" When he didn't answer, she said, "I looked it up on the mesh. I couldn't find anything about a colony with that name."

"It is small place, not much." His gaze softened as he turned to her. "I translated another song tonight."

"Oh. Good." It relieved her that he hadn't objected when they told him the songs had to be in English. A lot of her acts sang in Chinese or Spanish. If he had been doing fusion, he could have sung in any language, even one he made up. But for holo-rock, labels wanted English, mainly for historical reasons, because it had started in English-speaking countries.

Curious, she said, "What language were you singing before?" Maybe talking about his home would relax him.

He smiled slightly. "It's called Trillian. From offworld."

Huh. That sounded made-up. "I've never heard of it."

"It's an old language."

"It can't be that old," Ricki said. "The earliest offworld colony has only been around a hundred and fifty years."

Del considered her as if she were a decision he needed to ponder. Then he said, "I don't come from an Allied colony. Lyshriol was one of the lost colonies from the Ruby Empire. Your people found it about a hundred years ago."

Ricki gaped at him. "You're Skolian?"

"Earth found us. Not the Skolians." Although guarded, he wasn't avoiding her gaze. "Some resort planners from Texas started to set up hotels there, but it didn't work out. So they left."

Ricki had always had an internal detector for when people lied to her, an intuition that proved invaluable in her business. She thought Del was telling the truth. Still, it sounded weird. "So you're saying you come from an offworld settlement that's five thousand years old."

"That's right." He was watching her closely. "Does that bother you?"

"Well, no." She had no idea what to make of it. "I've never understood this business about the Skolian colonies. I don't see how they can be five thousand years old. Humans lived in caves back then."

Del shrugged. "Some race took humans from Earth and left them on another planet."

Although Ricki had heard the story, she had never believed it at a gut level. "Why would a bunch of aliens take humans from Earth thousands of years ago and strand them on some other world?"

"We don't know. They vanished."

Ricki couldn't help but laugh. "So your ancestors, a bunch of Stone Age primitives, set up an interstellar empire? Come on."

"Not right away." Del didn't seem offended by her questions. "It take a thousand years. Even then, they manage only because they have libraries." He stopped, then said, "I mean, they managed because they had libraries. The beings that kidnapped them left behind libraries that describe the science. Described, I mean."

It amazed her how fast he was learning English. And what a deliciously odd development in her new act. "So this interstellar empire they set up thousands of years ago--that's what Skolians call the Ruby Empire?"

"That's right." He tapped his fingers on the table. "The Empire didn't last long. Its people knew too little about the science they were using. Its collapse left its colonies stranded."

Ricki rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand, fascinated. This could make some dynamite promotional material if Del would let her use it. "Is that why Skolians call those worlds lost colonies? Because they were stranded after the empire fell?"

Del nodded. "My world is one. We were isolated for thousands of years. We lost our technology." He stared at his hinged hand. "Maybe we never had it. We have no records from that time."

"I'm surprised the Skolians don't demand we give your world back to them."

He shifted in his seat. "I don't get involved in politics."

Well, good. She got heartburn when her acts used their celebrity to push an agenda. It hurt sales. "If the Ruby Empire fell thousands of years ago," she mused, "I wonder why the Skolians still have a Ruby Dynasty."

Del suddenly swung around to look at the gold wall across the room. "I think the bartender is here."

"I don't hear--" Ricki stopped as a man in a tuxedo and a glimmer-mesh cravat walked through the curtain of gold light. He carried a laser tray with a blue drink that glowed in a play of silver light.

Huh. How had Del known someone was coming in?

"This is Jack," Ricki told Del. "Did you hear him outside?"

"That's right." Del wouldn't look at her.

Jack set the glass in front of Del and bowed. "I hope you enjoy it, sir."

Although Del nodded, he seemed stiff, and he barely glanced at the drink. Ricki doubted he was used to being waited on, especially in such sleek surroundings.

"Try it," she coaxed Del after the bartender left the room.

He wouldn't meet her gaze. He picked up the drink and took a sip, then set it back on the table.

"Do you like it?" Ricki asked. Given its potency, it wouldn't be long before he felt its effects.

"It's good," he said, looking at the city. "I thought it would be too sweet. But it's not."

"Only the best for you."

His gaze shifted to her. "So I noticed." He watched her with his lashes half lowered, as if he were in bed.

Oh, my. Ricki took another sip, letting her lips linger on the glass, then slowly ran her tongue over the rim. "Go on," she coaxed. "Finish yours."

Del stared at her as she drank. Then he lifted his drink and downed it in one swallow. She started, expecting him to choke, but he just set down the glass.

"Well, that was impressive," Ricki said with a laugh.

Del pushed her glass away from her. "You don't need that." He drew his finger down her hand, from her wrist to the tip of her thumb. It was only the slightest touch, yet that only made it more erotic. The hinge in his hand didn't look strange anymore. She wondered what he could do with it. She turned her hand over so he was trailing his finger across her palm. Then she curled her fingers, capturing his. It wasn't until Del's lips curved upward, slow and tempting, that she realized he had barely smiled tonight. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her palm.

"My people say the moons of Lyshriol are more exquisite than any woman," he told her, his breath warming her skin. Softly he added, "The people who say that have never met you."

Ricki sighed. This boy was going to get himself ravished. "Do you know," she said. "A person could live up here."

"Hmmm." With his eyes closed, Del pressed her palm against his cheek. It was a curiously sweet gesture.

"Would you like to know why?" she asked.

Opening his eyes, he kissed the inside of her wrist. "Why?"

"Prime-Nova has a suite here." She sighed as his tongue flicked across her skin. "For tonight . . . it's ours."

Del's lashes lifted. "Does it have a bedroom?"

"Oh, yes," Ricki murmured. She slid off her chair and stood by the table. Del stood as well, and his gaze traveled over her in the most satisfying manner.

* * *

Del knew he should have refused the drink. His meds would render it harmless, and he had taken no drugs for the alcohol to affect anyway, but that didn't matter. He had sworn never to take another drink. But he hadn't wanted to refuse and look even more unsophisticated than Ricki already considered him.

Don't dwell on it. He pushed the thought into the mental recess where he hid the memories he wanted to forget.

Ricki swayed in her slinky dress as she led him across the room. Reaching down, he took her hand. The room lights had dimmed, giving the place an ethereal quality, as if they were floating in the sky. Moonlight poured through the window-wall at their right.

The wall ahead of them looked like blue crystal with silver spirals turning in it, soothing and hypnotic. As they approached, the wall morphed into a curtain of blue light. Ricki took him through into a dim room rippling in subtly erotic swirls of opalescent colors. On the right, another window-wall looked over the city. The covers on the bed to their left glimmered with holographic washes of blue and aqua.

When Ricki stopped by the bed, Del turned her to face him. Even in her spiked heels, she only came to his chin. As he stroked back her hair, her exotic eyes widened. They had captivated him since the first moment he saw her today. It wasn't only that they were huge, with long lashes, but they were blue. Before coming to Earth, he had never seen that color. They made her look sweeter, innocent, glistening with youth. What he felt from her mind was anything but innocent; she had the sultry desire of an experienced woman. But he also sensed the vulnerability she hid deep within.

Her contradictions fascinated him. Bending his head, he kissed her, taking his time with it. She splayed her hand against his chest, touching his skin where he had left his collar open. Such a simple gesture, but it sent a surge of desire through him. He pulled her closer. He wanted all of her, hard and fast, then sweet and gentle, then both at the same time. Mostly, he wanted to throw her on the bed and rip away that wicked dress.

Except he couldn't get it off. He scraped at the seam that ran down her back, tugged, and pulled, to no avail. Ricki molded against him and walked her fingers up his spine. He wasn't sure what he did, but the dress finally fell open. He pushed it off her shoulders until it slid down to the ground, and she stood in front of him, her long lashes lowered, her skin flushed with health. Well, well. Naughty vid producer. She hadn't worn a shred of underclothes.

"Gods," Del muttered. He ran his knuckles down her cheek and over her lips. She stayed there, letting him look at her. A dusting of gold hair showed in the triangle between her thighs.

"Your turn," she murmured, and stepped closer.

Del helped her pull off his jacket and shirt, but she wouldn't let him do any more. She undid his belt and dropped the rings in a pile on the ground, their metal clinking together. It was maddening the way she unfastened his pants and peeled off his clothes with slow deliberation. When he couldn't take it any more, he yanked her against his body, one arm around her back, his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as he kissed her.

"You're killing me," Ricki whispered. Lifting her knee, she tried to mount him right there, while they were standing.

"Patience, sweetheart." Del laid her on the bed and pulled off the rest of his clothes. Lying down, he took her into his arms. She had a startled look, like a doe, but he felt how much she wanted him. As he stretched out on her, she wrapped her legs around his waist. With a groan, he buried himself inside of her. Ricki gasped, her desire rushing through his mind. She took what he had to give, matched his rough intensity, and reached for more. He took her up, closer to her peak, to the edge--and stopped, holding her there, keeping her from that final burst of pleasure.

And then he did it again and again, until she cried out with frustrated desire. Finally he took her over the edge and she moaned while he exploded inside her, his mind blanking with ecstasy.

"Del?"

"Hmmm?" He stirred, trying to wake up. Ricki lay under him.

"We should get under the covers," she said drowsily.

He kissed her nose, feeling tender now. "Pretty vid producer."

She smiled like a satisfied cat. "You're something else, babe." As he slid to her side, she curled against him. "I could get to like that."

"Get to?" He worked the covers under their bodies and then pulled the silky cloth over the two of them. Blue and green holos rippled as if the bed were part of the sea.

Ricki didn't answer, but he didn't care. He knew she liked what they had done. More than liked. Being an empath could be excruciating in the city when he was trying to shut out all the emotions, but with intimacy it had advantages. He cradled her against his body and rubbed his cheek on her head.

"You're so affectionate," she mumbled. "Commanding as a dom when you're hot and as sweet as a sub afterward." She yawned as her voice trailed off. "What a combo . . ."

"Dom and sub?" Del asked. "What does that mean?"

She didn't answer, having already drifted away.

Holding her in his arms, Del relaxed into the airbed, and it shifted as it eased him asleep. . . .

Ricki stroked his hair. "I'll see you later."

Del managed to open his eyes. He was sprawled on his stomach, alone in the bed, his legs splayed across the mattress. No lights shimmered in the room except the silvery moonlight pouring in from the window-wall. He was vaguely aware of Ricki's kiss on his cheek. Then he slipped back into oblivion.

Del awoke slowly. Opening his eyes, he gazed at the ceiling. Although sunlight diffused through the polarized window-wall, the temperature remained cool. He reached for Ricki, but he was alone. After a while, he remembered she had left while it was dark.

Stretching his arms, Del sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had slept better tonight than in years. As he stood up, he looked around for his clothes. When he realized they had disappeared, he smiled, his mind spinning scenarios of why Ricki would hide his clothes. When he walked around the bed, though, he saw them neatly folded on a chair by the wall, with his boots underneath. Oh, well.

He found the bathing room and let mists in the shower cleanse his body and hair. Soothing jets of warm air dried him off. Back in the bedroom, he dressed languidly, feeling lazy and restless at the same time. He thought about Ricki, the way she smiled, her husky laugh, the temptress under that soft exterior.

Del wandered into the room where they had shared drinks last night. In the daylight, Washington hummed below the tower, a city of arches, glossy skyscrapers, and soaring flycar traffic. All the taller structures were new, built since the ban on height had been lifted. From up here, no trace showed of the grit or aged buildings he had seen during his ride from the airport to Annapolis. That had been after Allied Space Command had taken him away from the Scandinavian base where they were keeping the rest of his family. He was supposedly an honored guest here. Right. He wasn't nearly so naive as they believed. They had separated him from his family because he was the youngest member, the one they thought most likely to slip up and reveal useful information.

His stomach rumbled. The room had nothing in it except the table where he and Ricki had sat and a blue console against one wall. Maybe it was empty so a couple could dance in the light of the nighttime city. Very romantic. No food, though.

Del went to the table. He had no idea how to call Jack, or whoever was on duty, so he just tapped the mesh. "Hello?"

A man's voice came out of the comm. "Good morning, Mister Valdoria."

"Uh, good morning." Del thought the voice belonged to a human, but he couldn't be sure. "I was wondering if I could get some breakfast." He had to admit, nothing could compare to the morning meals people ate here on Earth.

"What would you like?" the man said.

"Do you have pancakes?"

"Certainly, sir. Anything you would like."

Del wondered if they really could bring him anything. "How about pancakes with raspberry syrup, scrambled eggs, two sausages, hash browns, orange juice, and coffee with Antares cream extract."

"I'll have it sent up right away."

Del grinned. "Great." He could get used to this. The Star Tower might not have the opulence of his family's palaces, but he liked its modern sleekness. He didn't feel lacking here, either, the way he did around his family. No one knew anything about him; he was just Ricki's enigmatic guest.

While Del waited for breakfast, he wandered over to the blue console. "Hello?" he said.

A female voice answered, rich and beautifully modulated. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

"Are you the EI for this suite?"

"Yes, I am," she purred. "My name is Aphrodite."

Strange name. She had a gorgeous voice, though. "Aphrodite, can you connect me to an offworld communications mesh?"

"Certainly, Mister Valdoria. I'll just need your Prime-Nova security codes."

"I don't have any."

"I'm terribly sorry." She sounded like she really meant it. "I can't link you in without the codes."

Oh, well. She might sound a lot sexier than the EIs at the base, but she said the same things. "Can I check my mesh-mail from here? My account is local."

"Certainly, sir."

A flat screen on the console rippled with gold light, and a holo of the Prime-Nova lobby formed above it. The double doors swung invitingly open to the outside. Nice. This probably wasn't a live image of the Prime-Nova building, though. To send it live would require lasers there to scan the lobby and screens here to create the holo, and using that much bandwidth just to enter a mail server would be silly.

After Del gave Aphrodite his codes, the view changed to the guitar case he used to represent his mesh-mail. Nothing interesting greeted him in his account, just some spamoozala that had escaped the junk sentinels. After he washed it down the drain, however, he discovered a message from Mac.

"Play Tyler one," Del said.

Mac's agitated voice rose into the air. "Del, comm me at my office as soon as you get this."

Del's pulse jumped. Had a problem come up with Prime-Nova? He hadn't sensed anything wrong from Ricki, but he didn't know how things worked here. Maybe he wasn't supposed to sleep with his producer.

"Aphrodite, can you put me through to Mac Tyler's office?" Del asked. "The codes are--"

"I have Mister Tyler's office," she murmured. "Coming up."

Interesting. Mac must be a better front-liner than he let on, if Prime-Nova's penthouse at the top of the Star Tower was set up to reach him so easily. "Do you know Mac?"

"I do now," she said.

"Why now?"

"I've been running analyses on you since Ms. Varento brought you up here last night," Aphrodite said.

A flush heated Del's face. He never interacted with EIs much at home, so he hadn't thought about what they did when people weren't asking them for things. "Analyzing me? For what?"

"Anything. If you asked for your front-liner, for example."

"Oh." Del hesitated. "Is that all you do?"

"I run the hotel." Her voice changed to a man's sensuous bass. "For some guests I manifest as Apollo."

Del had no interest in talking to Apollo. "I like Aphrodite better."

She switched back into her sexy female voice. "I make sure the building runs properly."

"That's a lot of work."

"Not for me." She sounded amused. "When I get bored, I make bets with the EIs from other hotels."

Good gods. "About what?"

"Well, say, what is the quantum probability that all the air molecules in this room will collect under the bed and create a vacuum in the rest of the room. The winner was the one who calculated it the fastest, since none of us would bet on it happening." With pride, she said, "I won."

Del gave a startled laugh. "You mean the air could do that?"

"The probability is infinitesimal. But not utterly zero."

"What do you get for winning?"

"A new problem to work on."

Del smiled wryly. "And you do this for fun?"

"It's entertaining," she said. "Not as much as betting on human behavior, but we aren't allowed to do that."

His face heated. "On humans! What kind of bets?"

"For example, were you going to have reproductive relations with Ms. Varento last night."

The thought of EIs all across Washington, D.C. betting on his sex life was too, too mortifying. "If you could have done it, would you have lost or won?"

"Won," she said pleasantly. "The probability of you two going into the bed was much higher than all the air going under the bed."

Del's face was burning. "You needed quantum theory for that?"

"Oh no, just common sense." Then she added, "Your breakfast is here. Shall I let in the waiter?"

"Yes!" Relieved to escape the subject of his sex life, Del said, "Please do."

A man swept in with a covered tray. Although less formal than the tuxedoed bartender from last night, he wore an elegant white shirt and black slacks. He stood a tray by the console and set out a breakfast that left Del's mouth watering. Then he bowed and withdrew as efficiently as he had entered.

"Now this is living." Del picked up a fork and attacked his breakfast.

Del had been wolfing down pancakes for several moments when Aphrodite said, "I have Mister Tyler on the comm."

Del washed down his mouthful with a swallow of orange juice. "Put him on."

A flat screen rose from the console and brought up a view of Mac sitting at his own console, scowling. "What the hell did you do to Ricki?"

"Nothing," Del said. That wasn't true, exactly, but he had thought she liked what he did to her. "Why? Did she change her mind about the contract?"

"For heaven's sake, Del, quit worrying that they'll cancel it. They can't do it that way." Mac glared at him. "She commed me this morning. She wants you to join the Mind Mix tour when they come to Maryland."

Del couldn't see why he was upset. "That's what I agreed to do."

"Not yet. They'll be here in one week."

"That's fine with me."

"Do you have any idea what opening for a major act entails?" Mac demanded. "Do you have a show? Have you practiced it? What songs are you going to sing? Have you translated them? What costumes will you need? Do you want musicians onstage or will you use mesh-tech sets? Who's on your crew?"

Del squinted at him. "Given that the answer to most of that is 'I have no idea what you're talking about,' I'd say you're right, I'm not ready."

Relief washed over Mac's face. "No, you're not."

"You'll help me set it up, right?"

Mac's scowl came back. "I don't think you're getting this."

Del's shoulders had tensed up. Mac was beginning to sound like his hard-nose military brother, Kelric, the Imperator. "We have a week."

"You need months."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," Del said shortly.

"It has nothing to do with confidence." Mac thumped his console. "Don't go all prickly on me, Del. I have no doubt you can do this. But not in one week. And when the hell did your English get so much better?"

"My English is better?"

"You're using the tenses right."

Del shrugged. "I learn fast."

"Four weeks ago you could barely speak it."

Del didn't want to go into why he picked up spoken language so well, that changes in the genome of his father's ancestors had affected their brains. He had also inherited the price they paid for that facility: an inability to learn written language. He had no intention of telling Mac he was illiterate. So he said, "Obviously, then, I can translate enough songs in a week."

"You need to do a lot more than translate songs."

"Like what?"

"A team," Mac said. "A manager, to start with."

"I thought you did that."

"No. I'm your front-liner. I just get you the contract."

Alarm flared through Del. He had expected Mac to stay with him. "You're practically the only person I know outside the base."

Mac exhaled. "General McLane wants me to manage you." He still sounded angry, though Del had a feeling now it was at the general.

"I'll bet you weren't supposed to tell me that," Del said.

"I won't trick you," Mac said. "I'll take the job if you want, but you should know I'll be reporting to the military. And I'm not your best choice. I don't have much experience."

Del spoke without doubt. "I want you."

"You're sure? I can refer you to some of the best."

"Some things are more important than experience. I know you." Del meant, I trust you, but he didn't feel ready to say that.

Mac regarded him steadily. "All right. As your manager, I'm telling you that you aren't ready to do a show in one week."

"I don't see why. I just stand there and sing."

Mac leaned forward. "I'm going to send you some vids of live concerts. Immerse yourself in them. Check every angle, all the pull-downs and add-ons. Then tell me what you want for your show."

"All right." Del hesitated. "If I'm not ready, why would Ricki want me to perform?"

"She doesn't know," Mac said. "She says, and I quote, 'He's so hot, he's sizzling. We need to get him out there.' "

Del grinned. "She's the expert."

Mac didn't smile. "You need to tell her you don't have a show. If you don't want to, I can tell her for you."

Del felt as if his family were leaning over him, convinced he would fail or afraid that if he demanded too much of himself, it would kill him, because he would buckle under the stress and turn to drugs. Then he imagined Ricki--beautiful, sensual Ricki--looking at him with that same disappointment. He would no longer be the mystery guest in her Star Tower, he would be a failure. Again.

"I can do this," he said. "Don't tell her I can't."

"Del, you don't--"

"I mean it, Mac."

"Fine." Mac braced his palms on his console as if he were steeling himself for a fight. "If you're performing in a week, we need to finalize your contract. Which means you have to contact your family."

Del stiffened. "What the hell for? I don't need their damn permission to sign a contract."

"The legal age of majority here is twenty-five."

"So?"

"You need proof of your age. You look like a teenager."

"Maybe. But I'm not."

Mac regarded him in exasperation. "You don't have proof."

"The doctors at Annapolis can verify my age."

"Don't you think Prime-Nova will wonder why the military is providing proof?" Mac shook his head. "And I'm not sure they would do it. Only half the tests place your age as twenty-six. The others are inconclusive or put you as younger."

Del was growing uncomfortable. "I spent some time in a cryowomb after I--" He stumbled on the words. "After I died. It took a while for them to fix the damage to my body. That's why some tests come out strange." He had never fully understood the science, something about cell division and telomeres and teeth. The doctors used different ways to test his age, and the cryogenesis had slowed them at slightly different rates.

"Ricki says if you can't prove your age, their doctors will have to verify it," Mac told him. "They'll come up with the same inconsistencies. Prime-Nova won't risk that ambiguity."

Del couldn't believe it. "This is ridiculous! Where I grew up, people are considered adults at sixteen."

Mac lifted his hands, then dropped them. "I understand. But by modern standards, you practically are a child. The average human lifespan is one hundred and twenty years, and it's getting longer. The number of people younger than twenty-five is a small fraction of the population, which makes you seem even younger to most people. Prime-Nova won't risk the public relations debacle of appearing to exploit a naive farm boy." He spoke flatly. "And Ricki is protecting herself. Whatever you two did last night, I don't want to know. But if you're underage, she could get in trouble."

Del didn't know whether to laugh or groan. "If your people think a man isn't ready for sex until he's twenty-five, you need a reality check."

"Eighteen is the age of consent," Mac said. When Del snorted, Mac added, "I'm not interested in what you or anyone else did in his youth. Just the law."

"It didn't stop Ricki last night."

"She believes you," Mac said. "But you need proof to sign the contract."

Del didn't know what to say. He couldn't just order a copy of his birth certificate. It identified him as a Ruby prince. Given how annoyed the Skolian Assembly was with the Allieds right now, they would probably tie themselves into knots of suspicion if Del suddenly asked for documentation of his age.

Of course, his family could send him what he needed without revealing his identity. But the thought of asking for their help in proving his age when they treated him like an irresponsible child was more than he could stomach.

"There has to be another way," Del said.

"You could find your own doctor," Mac said. "If a reputable physician gives you verification, Prime-Nova will accept it."

"Can you help me set it up?"

"I can," Mac said. "But you should know. Allied Space Command will do whatever they can to access the doctor's report."

Del raised an eyebrow. "I thought medical reports here were confidential unless the patient approved their release."

"They are." Mac regarded him steadily. "I would never suggest they would try to circumvent that confidentiality."

Right. It seemed he couldn't get away from people who wanted to interfere in his life. "Great," he muttered.

"It's up to you," Mac said. "If you still want to do this, given that, I'll help you find a physician Prime-Nova will accept."

"You don't have to tell General McLane I went to a doctor."

Mac spoke quietly. "I have to. I'm sorry."

His answer didn't surprise Del. He didn't always like what Mac had to say, but Del had never doubted his honesty.

"I still want to do it," Del said. The contract was too important to give up just because the Allied military might discover his medical history was a disaster.

"All right." Mac took a breath. "And Del."

He regarded Mac warily. "Yes?"

"ASC wants to put a tracker in your body."

"Hell, no!"

"It's for your safety."

"No!"

"They aren't going to relent on this."

Del gritted his teeth until it hurt. He knew they would keep at him about it, wearing him down with arguments. He made himself stop gnashing his teeth and forced out the words. "What if I give you the codes to the one the Skolian military put in me?"

Mac looked relieved. "That would be fine." He still seemed uncomfortable, though.

"There's more?" Del asked.

Mac cleared his throat. "You have to comm your family."

Del smacked his palm on the console. "Prime-Nova can't insist on that if I prove I'm an adult even by their ridiculous standards."

"It isn't Prime-Nova who insists. It's Fitz McLane."

Del scowled at him. "General McLane can go to hell."

"If you don't contact your family," Mac said, "he'll do it using official military channels."

"What the blazes for? It's my life. That's none of his business."

"It's not just your life." Mac took a breath. "If you don't tell your family that you're staying here of your own choice, the tension between your people and ours will continue to escalate."

He hated knowing Mac was right. "Well, damn."

"Del."

"I'll do it. But I won't tell them about the music contract." Del willed him to understand. "Mac, give me your word none of you will tell them, okay? If I fail here, I don't want my family to know." It would reaffirm how little they thought of him.

Mac didn't look surprised. "You have my word. And I think McLane will be fine with it. But, Del, we'll only remain silent if we feel it doesn't endanger you."

"Fair enough." Del glanced with longing at his breakfast, then turned back to Mac. "And you'll send me those vids?"

"Right away. Come by my office after you look at them."

"All right. See you then."

After they finished the call, Del drenched the remainder of his breakfast in syrup and dug in. He didn't see why Mac thought this concert thing was so complicated. He could have an hour-long show in a week. Either people liked his songs or not; he didn't see how special effects would matter. Of course, Mac would also worry about security. Del suspected the biggest danger was that some irate listener would throw him off the stage to shut him up.

"It's an excuse to cover bad singing!" Del glared at Mac. They were standing in the middle of Mac's office in downtown D.C. A holo-vid of Mort's Metronomes was going on all around Del, the blue-haired figures of light dancing past and through him.

Mac stood by his desk and felt a headache coming on. The vids were supposed to show Del how much preparation he needed, not inspire him to waltz in here with Jud Taborian and announce the songs were horse manure. Jud was leaning against a console, dark and lanky, his black dreadlocks threaded with red beads, his mesh-tech ticker in one hand. Cameron, Del's Marine bodyguard, had stayed by the wall, so unobtrusive Mac almost forgot he was there.

"Listen to this," Del said. He nodded to Jud, who fooled with his ticker. The holos of Mort's boring metronomes continued to play, but the audio went off, leaving four young men gyrating while pyrotechnics blasted around them, flashes of lightning and blasts of primary colors. Acrobats flipped in the background. It all looked a little sleazy without the sound.

"Now just put in the track of Mort singing," Del said to Jud.

"Hey!" Mac told Jud. "You aren't supposed to tamper with the original recording."

Jud regarded him innocently. "Can't imagine how it happened."

Mac frowned at him, and then at Del. Just what he needed, a couple of undercity punks breaking copyright laws in his office.

Mort James, the front man of the group, resumed singing. Without the instrumentals, backup singers, and other effects, he had only his voice to carry the vid. He did manage to keep the tune, but just barely, and his reedy voice was painful to hear.

Del stood in the midst of the holos and watched Mac defiantly. "He's off pitch by at least half a step in almost every line. He doesn't breathe right, so he runs out of steam. Listen to how thin that sounds! The nasal quality is awful. He yells because he can't hit the high notes. And that's after they fixed his voice. I don't even want to imagine what it was before."

"That's not the point," Mac began.

"I don't need a show!" Del said. "I'm no great singer, but I could do circles around these artists."

Mac wanted to shake him. "You have to entertain your public. They want the fireworks. If you just stand there and sing, you'll get terrible reviews."

Del put his hands on his hips. "How do you know? Has anyone ever done it?"

"Of course not," Mac said.

"Uh, actually, that's how people used to do it all the time," Jud said. "Back when rock first started."

Mac gave him an exasperated look. "Contrary to what the undercity may think, we aren't living two hundred years ago. Unless you have a time machine, you have to perform now, not in some primitive, barbaric rock concert."

Del waved his hand at the vid where Mort the manic metronome was twirling around, and Jud mercifully silenced it. "You're right, I can't have a show like this in a week. But I can sing, Mac, and that's what I'm going to do."

Mac wasn't a superstitious man, but he couldn't help wondering what terrible thing he had done in his life, that the cosmos decided to punish him by sending this intransigent princeling, who seemed determined to crash his fledgling career before it began. "Del, listen. Trust me. I've been in this business a long time. If you do what you've suggested, you'll plummet on stage."

Del crossed his arms. "I'm going on. With a live band."

"Fine," Mac said. "And I assume you have a band that will be ready in one week?"

Del hesitated. "Tabor can help me find it."

Oh, well, that was just great. Ricki would have a fit if Del filled his show with undercity artists doing controversial, experimental noise. "I'll find musicians for you."

"You have a problem with me?" Jud asked. He sounded curious rather than offended.

Mac resisted the urge to tell Jud what he thought of undercity artists. "I've access to more people in the business." Then, because he liked Jud more than he had expected, he added, "Let me know if you have any recommendations."

"Sure," Jud said amiably.

Del glanced at Jud. "I'll talk to you tonight, all right?"

"Okay." Jud took the hint. "See you."

After Jud left the office, Cameron glanced at Mac with a questioning look. When Mac nodded, Cameron stepped out of the room. Mac knew he would stay just outside, monitoring Del, but this would give Del a little more privacy. Del watched them with the look of a condemned man.

"You all right?" Mac asked when he and Del were alone.

Del nodded. "Can you set up the comm link for me?"

"I can get you on either a military or commercial net," Mac said. "If you go military, it'll be free. If you go commercial, you have to pay, but won't be as easy for ASC to eavesdrop."

Del spoke wryly. "As easy?"

"They'll still try," Mac admitted.

"The only way I can pay for offworld access is through my Ruby accounts," Del said. "And I can't reach those without getting on the nets."

"You could go military for that, then commercial for the rest."

Del shrugged with forced nonchalance. "What the hell. I'll go military for it all. What does it matter? General McLane will need to know what I said anyway. I might as well make it easy for him to listen."

Mac hated this, the way everyone sought to control this young man who had never bothered anyone, never caused trouble, never done anything except have a failure of judgment with a horrendous result. He wished everyone would let Del be, including his family, who seemed unable to accept that he didn't want the life they expected for him. He even wished Del could sing the way he liked, without worrying about politics or special effects or his heredity.

Mac set up the console so Del could use the comm, then offered Del the seat. As Del sat down, Mac asked, "Would you like me to leave?"

"No. Stay." Del looked up at him. "I could use the moral support." He turned and regarded the blank console screen uncertainly. "Claude?"

"Hello, Del," a male voice said.

Del took a breath. "I need a link to the Kyle-mesh."

"I'm sorry," Claude said. "But you need Skolian permission to use their Kyle network."

"My family created the Kyle-mesh," Del said. "I can give you access codes."

After a pause, Claude said, "I don't have contact with any node that would let you access the network."

"You just need to find a telop," Del said.

"How?" Claude asked.

Del looked up at Mac. "Why can't it do this?"

Mac rubbed the aching muscles in his neck. "Earth doesn't have many links to the Kyle-mesh. It's hard to get permission from your people to use it." He came over to the console. "Claude, contact General McLane's office. With his okay, Allied Space Command can set up the link."

"I'm paging him," Claude said.

While they waited, Mac regarded Del curiously. "You said 'telop.' That means telepathic operator, doesn't it?"

Del looked up at him. "That's right."

"Can't you act as a telop?"

"I don't have the training."

"But you're a full psion, aren't you?" Mac shifted his weight, self-conscious. "Both an empath and a telepath, right?"

Del shrugged. "If you're asking, do I know what you're thinking, the answer is no."

"But you can tell what I'm feeling."

"To some extent. You're not a psion, so it's harder." Del paused. "You're curious. About me."

Mac laughed. "You don't need empathy to know that."

Del spoke awkwardly. "Unless your mood is intense, I have to lower my mental defenses to sense anything more."

"Is it difficult? To lower your defenses, I mean."

It was a moment before Del answered. "It's like living without a skin. It hurts." He stared at the console, though he didn't seem to be looking at anything. After a moment, he spoke again. "You're nervous about something. Me, I think. You also feel . . . fatherly toward someone." Lifting his gaze to Mac, he said, "Toward me? Is that right?"

Good Lord. Mac hadn't expected Del to pick that up. He hesitated, then said, "I'm nervous I'll push too hard with my questions and put you off." Gently he added, "And you do remind me of my son. In a good way."

A blush touched Del's face. "Thanks." Then he smiled. "I got the 'Good Lord,' too."

"Those actual words?"

"Pretty clearly. That's rare, though." Del looked away from him. "I have to raise my barriers now. I can't let them down for long. And I can only do it around people I trust."

Mac's voice quieted. "Thank you."

After a moment, when neither of them said anything more, Claude spoke again. "Would you like to begin the comm?"

Del glanced at the console with a start. "Are you ready?"

"I have a telop in the Skolian embassy who can link to the Kyle-mesh. Do you have codes for the person you're contacting?"

Del took a deep breath, then nodded and gave Claude a series of numbers. "The telop will need to verify my retinal patterns, fingerprints, and voice."

"I've transferred your voice patterns," Claude said. "Prepare for retinal scan." As Del leaned over the console, a light played over his eyes. Then Claude said, "Place your hands on the monitor." When Del splayed his palms on the screen, Claude said, "Fingerprints verified."

Another voice came on, speaking in Skolian Flag. "Codes accepted. I'm putting you through."

"That's it?" Mac asked, stunned. When anyone spoke with a member of Del's family through official channels, it took hours to go through the layers of security and protocol.

Del gazed at the screen, avoiding Mac's eyes. "It's my private channel to the Sunrise Palace on the planet Parthonia."

"That's the capital world of the Imperialate, isn't it?"

"Yes. My mother is there for an Assembly session."

"Ah." Mac didn't know what else to say or do, except step back, so he wouldn't intrude on the conversation. Del's mother would still know another person was in the room, but he hoped it would be less intrusive without him leaning over Del.

The flat screen in front of Del cleared to show a woman at a console. It wasn't Del's mother; this woman had black hair with a dusting of grey. The delicate bone structure to her face gave her a fragile appearance. Her skin was so clear, it almost seemed translucent, and her green eyes had a quality of wisdom that made Mac suspect she was far older than she looked. He didn't recognize her, but he had the unsettling feeling he should.

"Del!" The woman smiled. "I can't believe it's you." She spoke in Iotic, an ancient language of the Skolian people. Mac had needed to learn it as part of his job, but it was almost as rare as Latin. Almost. It remained the native tongue of one small group, the Skolian noble Houses, which included the House of Skolia, otherwise known as the Ruby Dynasty. Del's family.

"Aunt Dehya, my greetings," Del said. "I thought this was my mother's channel."

Aunt Dehya? Mac almost fell over. He knew that nickname only because Del had mentioned it before. This woman's real name was Dyhianna Selei Skolia. He was looking at the Ruby Pharaoh, the sovereign who had overthrown her own government and in doing so had become one of the most powerful human beings alive. It was almost impossible to find images of her on the meshes. Known as the Shadow Pharaoh, she existed as a powerful, unseen presence. He had always imagined she must be a towering Amazon, stark and formidable. Not this petite woman. He doubted she was as fragile as she looked; her gaze had a core of steel.

"It is your mother's line," she told Del. "She's in her office, preparing for the Assembly. Shall I get her?"

"I don't want to bother her," Del said quickly. "I can talk to you." He had the look of a youth who hoped to escape a lecture.

The pharaoh smiled, a beautiful expression. "It's good to see you, Del. How are you?"

He actually returned her smile, looking shy. "I'm all right."

"Have they treated you well?"

His more typical scowl returned. "They're always asking questions. Yeah, they've treated me well. They're just innately annoying."

Dehya laughed, her voice like a ripple of water. Mac suspected her amusement came at least in part because she knew General McLane would hear Del's remarks.

"I'm sorry it's taken so long to get you out of there," she said. "But it shouldn't be too much longer."

"Actually," Del said, "I'm free to go. If I want."

"You are?" She sat up straighter. "They've told us nothing."

"Mac Tyler just told me today. I'm going to talk to General McLane later this afternoon."

"Then it's official?" Dehya didn't sound as if she believed it. "They've put up so many roadblocks."

Del squinted at her. "I made myself so annoying, they want to get rid of me."

"Oh, Del." Dehya looked as if she wasn't certain whether to laugh or worry. "It will be good to have you home."

"Well, see, uh, that's the thing."

She raised an eyebrow. "The 'thing'?"

"I'm not coming home."

The steel came back into her gaze. "What have they--"

"Aunt Dehya, wait! It's my choice."

"And why, pray tell, would it be your choice?"

"It has to do with a, um, woman."

"Oh." That didn't seem to surprise her. "What kind of woman? Someone McLane's people introduced you to?"

"No! She's a musician. I mean, she doesn't play music, she helps people who do."

"And you like her?"

"I'm not sure. I want to find out. And explore the music scene here." Excitement warmed his voice. "You wouldn't believe it! People here compose the most amazing works. Some of it even sounds like what I do."

A smile softened her face. "Which means a lot, yes?"

His posture relaxed. "Yes. It does."

"We'll miss you if you stay."

Del spoke dryly. "Mother will want Imperial Space Command to come haul me back home."

Her voice gentled. "It's because she worries about you."

"I'm great," Del said. "Tell her I send my love. I'll talk to you later."

"Talk to her now," Dehya said. "You've been in custody for weeks. You can't just comm us up, say, 'Oh, I met a woman, I'm staying, talk to you later.' "

Del made an exasperated noise. "Fine. I'll talk to her."

"Don't be angry."

He just shook his head. "So how's the Assembly?"

Mac couldn't believe he was listening to this, the pharaoh talking to her nephew like any other aunt. And here was Del, casually asking about the governing body of their people, a topic every leader from here to the Trader Empire would like to hear her discuss.

Dehya apparently had the same thought. She smiled fondly. "My answer would surely entertain everyone listening to us."

Del flushed. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," she said. "I'm just glad you're all right." She glanced at her console. "Roca's on. I'm going to switch you." Looking back up, she said, "Be well."

His expression softened. "You too, Aunt Dehya."

The screen turned blue, then cleared to show one of the most famous faces in three empires. She looked like a holo-movie goddess. Even knowing she was over a century in age, Mac couldn't believe she was more than twenty. A glorious mane of golden hair poured over her shoulders and arms, and shimmered like real gold. Her huge eyes were also gold, glistening and radiant. If Del had a few glints to his eyelashes, this woman's sparkled like glitter.

"Del!" Her smile lit up the screen, and Mac almost missed her next words, he was so flustered. Women that beautiful shouldn't exist; they made it impossible to think. Except then she scowled, and for a moment she looked just like Del.

"What the blazes is this about you staying on Earth?" she said.

"I'm glad to see you, too, Mother," Del said sourly.

"I'm delighted to see you, honey. But if ASC is pressuring you to stay there, we will deal with them." She leaned forward. "You don't have to do this."

"No one is pressuring me," Del said. "I met some people. Musicians. Like me. I want to see more."

"Oh, Del." Roca sighed. "You're wasting that magnificent voice of yours."

He clenched the console. "I don't consider it a waste."

"I can't imagine what Earth could offer that you couldn't do better here."

"I won't know unless I check it out."

Roca gave him a dour look. "I heard the music those soldiers of theirs listened to. You can do better than that. Much better."

Del stiffened. "Maybe I don't want to do 'better' than that. I liked what they listened to."

"It's not safe for you to stay on Earth."

"Why the hell not?"

"Do you have any bodyguards?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Del growled. "A Marine who pretends he's not a Marine."

"And how is that different from ASC holding you in custody?" Roca demanded. "Can't you see this is a trick by General McLane?"

"No, Mother. I'm just too stupid to imagine anyone would ever trick me."

Her golden cheeks flushed red. "Don't take that tone with me, young man."

"Then quit treating me like a child."

Roca's voice went too quiet. "I remember your telling me something like that before you went to Metropoli."

Del looked ready to hit someone. "Yes, I died on Metropoli. I made a stupid, stupid mistake. And you'll hold it over me forever, won't you?"

"Do you have any idea what the lifestyle is like in these 'music scenes'?" Behind the anger in her voice, her strain showed. "I don't want to pick you up in a coffin."

"Damn it, I can't live my entire life afraid to breathe. Why can't you believe I've learned from my mistakes?" Del clenched the edge of the console. "I'm staying here. I'm going to enjoy their music and see this woman. If I choose not to come home, it's my business."

"Woman?" Roca said, sitting up straighter. "What woman?"

Del flushed. "Just, um, somebody I met."

"Don't you ever slow down?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sometimes . . . discretion is better."

"Why don't you just say it?" Del thumped the console. "Your son is a whore."

"Del, stop it! Don't talk about yourself like that."

"Why not? Isn't it what Devon Majda called me?"

"She most certainly did not. She would never speak that way about a Ruby prince." Roca regarded him steadily. "You would never have agreed to that arranged marriage anyway." She rubbed her eyes, then dropped her arm. "Del, that was years ago."

"Not to me."

"So now you have another girl."

"Woman."

"What's her name? Her family? Does she know who you are?"

"Why ask me?" he asked. "My dear brother, Kelric the Imperator, has spies who will find everything out."

"Del, what a thing to say."

He took a breath and spoke more quietly. "If you're asking, does she know I'm a Ruby Heir, the answer is no. I'm not planning on telling anyone."

Relief washed over her face. "I think that's best."

"Mother, I don't want to argue with you." He regarded her with eyes that, except for their color, were exactly like hers. "Don't fight me on this, all right? If it doesn't work out, I'll come home."

It was a moment before she nodded. "Stay in touch with us."

"I will. I promise."

She let out a breath. "Take care of yourself."

"I will."

After they closed the connection, Del sat staring at the blank screen. When he had been quiet for several moments, Mac came over to him. "I'm sorry."

Del started, as if he had forgotten about Mac. "For what?"

"For being here."

"It's all right. If I had wanted you to leave, I'd have asked. Anyway, it's done." His voice lightened. "For me. I wouldn't want to be Fitz McLane right now. When Mother is done letting him know what she thinks, he'll think a hurricane hit him."

Mac could imagine. What a way to go, though, lambasted by one of the most beautiful women alive. "If you want to stay, our government has neither the reason nor the wish to deport you. Just make sure you get the proof of your age."

"I will."

Mac didn't know what else to say. He saw only the scars left by whatever had hurt Del and his family; he had no idea what caused them.

He just hoped it didn't end up destroying Del.

V: Openings

Del heard the crowd at the Merriweather Post Pavilion before he saw it. They filled the outdoor theater and the meadows that surrounded it, an area that had once been a Maryland city and now stretched in parkland for miles. The hover-van with Del's band pulled up in the secured area behind the huge stage. As he jumped down, he heard the rumble of the audience, tens of thousands of voices filling the air.

Del shuddered. He felt the crowd. The pressure pushed down his mind, and he had to intensify his empathic shields so much, it left him distanced from everyone. Muffled.

The main band, Mind Mix, had already arrived in a nondescript van designed to sneak past the crowds flowing around the stage, as people maneuvered for a glimpse of the stars. The area swarmed with techs, media mixers, and news teams recording the arrival of important musicians. No one paid attention to Del's group as they walked to the housing under the stage.

His band consisted of Jud Taborian and two musicians Mac had found. Del didn't understand their instruments. Jud played the morpher, which looked like a cross between a set of keyboards and a starship control panel. It changed shape according to how Jud played. He could coax it to sound like almost any instrument that resembled a keyboard, even something as exotic as the percussion xylophone. Under Jud's skilled touch, the morpher's AI followed Del's improvisations in rehearsals. Jud had a biochip in his brain he used to jack into the morpher the way one of Del's fighter-pilot brothers would hook into a starship. Del couldn't imagine learning such an instrument, but Jud made it look easy.

Nor had Del ever seen anything like the stringer played by his guitarist, Randall Gaithers. It morphed as well, to sound like Earth instruments that had strings: electric guitars, acoustic guitars, basses, cellos, even an electro-optic violin. Randall often combined several types of strings at once, creating a gorgeously full sound.

Anne Moore played a classical instrument: drums. They fascinated Del. Before coming to Earth, he had never used percussion. The effects added a quality to his music he had known was missing but couldn't pinpoint. She was better than any of the drummers on the vids Mac had sent him. A long-haired beauty, she had a sophistication that didn't fit the Prime-Nova "look." Jud and Randall didn't really fit it, either, Jud with his dreadlocks and Randall with his baggy clothes. It bothered Del to know that if he bombed, the higher-ups would assume his band hadn't worked out because they didn't fit the marketing slots. From the comments Zachary had made, Del wondered if anyone at Prime-Nova even noticed that Del's musicians played better than any of the ones the label hired for their vids.

Mac had also hired a tech. Bonnie. Small and shy, she had soft brown hair and big eyes. Although usually unassuming, she turned into a lion with the equipment. She knew it better than an asteroid miner knew how to dodge space debris. And of course the taciturn, hulking Cameron came with them, too, pretending not to be a Marine. He actually fit in perfectly with the other buzz-haired, impassive roadies. Apparently the military look was hot right now for those who could pull it off. Why they wanted to pull it off, Del had no idea, but then, they probably didn't have aggravating military dictators for brothers.

He walked with Randall under the stage. Del was too nervous to talk, especially to Randall, whom he didn't know outside of their rehearsals this past week. So they went in silence down a hallway with swirled tubes of light on the ceiling. Media mixers hurried past, conferring about some indecipherable effects they had dreamed up for the Mind Mix extravaganza. Anne and Jud were ahead of Del, discussing one of his songs, and Mac walked nearby with a stagehand, asking about acoustics. The anticipation that had buoyed Del earlier today had vanished. He felt nauseated. He was going to go out on stage and throw up. He wished he had listened to Mac and told Ricki he couldn't do this. But it was too late. He had to go up there no matter what.

Not that he knew when he would have told Ricki. He hadn't seen her since their night together. Mac knew how to reach her, but Del hadn't yet asked. Perhaps it was his pride, or maybe his uncertainty about what he wanted. She could have left her comm code instead of vanishing without a damn note. He told himself he didn't want involvement, so he should be relieved she didn't put any pressure on him. But that didn't explain why it hurt so much that she ignored him.

The room at the end of the corridor swirled with colors. Del groaned. Having blue walls ripple around him was too much. Too many people were here, everyone keyed up for the concert he was supposed to open in less than thirty minutes. He couldn't handle the empathic onslaught. He was shutting down, and he didn't know how to stop it from happening.

A man with a vaguely familiar face appeared out of the crowd. "Del?" he asked. He turned on a laser-light smile that creased his handsome features. His hair looked brown, though it was so short, Del couldn't tell if it was light or dark.

"Del Arden?" the man asked.

It startled Del to hear his middle name used as his last name. Prime-Nova insisted. They said the name "Valdoria" was too long, as if humans had devolved past the ability to deal with four syllables. General McLane wanted the change, too. Del didn't see why; the Valdoria name was virtually unknown. People knew the Ruby Dynasty by the name Skolia, as in the Skolian Imperialate. But even Mac told him to change it, so Del had quit arguing.

"Yes, I'm Del Arden," Del said.

"Good to meet you." The man stuck out his hand.

Del shook his hand, confused. "Hello."

Another man came over, dark-eyed and dark-haired, with low-slung trousers and a slouch to match his scowl. "Hey." He looked Del over. "So you're the opener?"

"That's right," Del said. Now he recognized them from holos Mac had shown him. The first man was Rex Montrow, the vocalist for Mind Mix, and the other was Tristan Holtrane, their drummer.

"Sorry about the rehearsal peat muck-up today," Rex said. "Our corking flight was three hours over in the City and we missed our linker here."

"It's, uh, all right," Del said. He barely understood what Rex had just said. "We rehearsed anyway." He hadn't felt shaky when they had gone through his set earlier today. He'd been fine. But then, he hadn't had forty thousand people listening to him.

"Great," Rex said, a little too heartily. "We've been doing three-hour shows. Having you soap up that first hour will help."

Tristan glowered at Del with the brooding stare that made him famous. Del had thought it looked forced in vids, but now the drummer seemed genuinely angry. If Del hadn't been on the edge of an empathic overload, he would have eased down his shields enough to figure out why. But if he tried that now, he would probably go catatonic.

"Where else have you played?" Rex asked. Although he sounded friendly, an edge underlay his voice.

"Offworld," Del said. What could he tell them--that their warm-up act had zero experience? If he had been Tristan, he would have glared, too.

"Offworld what?" Tristan demanded. "Pony shows?"

"Hey." Rex shook his head at the drummer.

Another man came up, a blond exactly the same height as Rex and Tristan, sporting the same muscular build and a similar face, with regular features and a straight nose. Jessup Tackman, the morpher for Mind Mix. Even their names sounded similar. Del wondered why Prime-Nova didn't just clone their artists.

Tackman grinned at Rex and said what sounded like. "Hoyce says the lonny sardines are packed tight. Forty Kay."

What? Del knew Tackman came from a place called Australia, but he had thought they spoke English there.

Someone touched Del's elbow. Rex looked past Del and turned on his smile, Tackman nodded to someone behind Del, and Tristan aimed his scowl in that direction.

"Hey, Mac," Rex said.

With relief, Del turned to find Mac next to him.

"Good to see you," Mac said to Rex. He took Del's arm. "I'm going to steal him before you three wear him out."

Although they all chuckled at that, it sounded forced.

Del went with him, glad to escape Tristan's glower. "I don't look right, Mac. I need to cut my hair."

"You can't," Mac said.

"What do you mean, I can't?"

"It's in your contract," Mac said. "Remember? You agreed to a costume clause."

"I thought that meant I couldn't wear anything Prime-Nova found offensive."

Mac spoke dryly. "As far as they're concerned, that includes changing your style. They hired a singer with lots of curls. You need their okay to stop having curls."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Yeah, but it's how they do business." Mac led him to a corner where a beefy man in faux urban-camouflage fatigues and a woman with straight black hair were arguing.

"He's got triple the allowed levels," the woman was saying. "It's the third time this tour. Hell, Curtis, it's the third time in the past two weeks."

"He has to go on." The man, Curtis apparently, was shouting. "You aren't the police, Soo-Ling. You can't shut down the act."

"He signed a contract." She tossed a holofile at him, and he barely caught it. "If Tackman can't keep clean, I'll have him kicked off that stage."

Mac cleared his throat, but Curtis and Soo-Ling ignored him. "If you disrupt this tour," Curtis said, waving the holofile, "Prime-Nova will come down on you with nine-hundred-ton lawyers."

Soo-Ling didn't look the least bit cowed by the threat of overweight lawyers. "Ten thousand dollars," she said. "The fine comes out of his take from the tour."

"Five thousand," Curtis said.

"Hell, no," Soo-Ling said. "Tackman is flying. He keeps this up, he's going to fall apart out there."

Mac cleared his throat again, louder this time.

Soo-Ling swung around. "What the hell do you want?"

"This is Del Arden," Mac said. "The opener."

"Oh." She exhaled and spoke more quietly. "Sorry, Mac." She motioned Del over to a medical station against the wall. "I'll be with you in a minute." Turning to Curtis, she said, "Nine thousand."

Del shot an alarmed look at Mac.

"She's going to check you for drugs," Mac said as they walked to the medical station. "Keep clean. If they catch you drilling, the fines come out of your take for the concert. Too many times, and they'll cut you from the tour."

"They do drug testing for concerts?"

"It's in your contract," Mac said. "Under moral standards."

"I thought those meant I couldn't do anything obscene."

"That, too." Mac stopped by the med station, which resembled a two-tier table on wheels. "Prime-Nova has an agreement with Nacon, the North American Narcotics Administration. If the company polices its artists, Nacon won't arrest them."

Soo-Ling stalked over, still arguing with Curtis, who was apparently Mind Mix's manager. "Get him a babysitter, Curtis." She scowled at Del. "Put your arm in the cuff. And don't argue with me. It's been a long day."

"Soo," Mac said softly.

"Sorry," she muttered.

Del squinted at the med station, which had nothing that looked like a "cuff" to him. The closest was a tube of light glimmering above the top tier. Regarding it dubiously, he put his arm inside the tube. Something whirred, and then he couldn't move his arm. Startled, he jerked on it, trying to pull away.

"Hey," Del said, alarmed. "It's got me."

"All you found was neuro-amp," Curtis was telling Soo, oblivious to Del. "How are these guys supposed to go three hours every night with no relief and nothing to keep them awake? It's impossible."

"Tackman should try sleeping." Soo-Ling punched panels on the med station. "Not partying every chance he gets."

"Soo, Del has to go on soon," Mac said.

Del tried harder to free his arm, to no avail. He winced as pins pricked his skin. He couldn't see anything; he just felt it. A display of holos appeared above his arm showing a man's body, including muscles, organs, circulatory system, skeleton, and a neurological map. Symbols scrolled by under the images.

"Uh, could someone get my arm out of this thing?" Del asked.

"They're too overbooked to have a party," Curtis told Soo-Ling. "Maybe if Prime-Nova backed off their tour schedule, they wouldn't be so fucking desperate to stay awake."

Del wasn't surprised Tackman was taking neuro-amps, if he had to deal with bizarre tubes of light while everyone ignored him.

"Well, here's good news." Soo was studying a display on the med station. "Their warm-up is clean. Healthy nanomeds, no chemicals, and no neural stim." She glanced at Del. "Stay that way, babe. You'll have a lot less trouble."

Babe again? Del liked it from Ricki, but he was tired of it from everyone else. With a tube of light holding him prisoner, though, he was too nervous to be annoyed. Besides, except for Bonnie, he was the youngest person here.

The light tube suddenly vanished, and his arm fell onto the padded top of the station. Mac let out a breath, as if he hadn't been sure the cuff would release Del, either.

"Thanks, Soo," Mac said.

"Yeah." She glared at Curtis and launched back into their argument.

Mac gave Del a rueful look as he motioned toward a wall across the room. "Come on. I know a calmer place."

Del's pulse was ratcheting up. "How long until I go on?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"Gods give me luck," Del muttered in Iotic.

Mac spoke in a low voice as they crossed the room. "Del."

"What?" He snapped out the word.

"The chance of anyone here knowing the language of Skolian royalty is tiny, but it's not impossible."

"Oh." Del pushed his hand through his hair. "Sorry."

An arch shimmered in the wall and vanished in front of them. Mac escorted Del through the opening into a quieter room. Jud, Randall, and Anne were already there.

"Del, you look like a ghost," Anne said, laughing good-naturedly. "You okay?"

Randall frowned at him. "You passed Soo's tests, didn't you?"

"I'm fine," Del said. "We all set to go on?" The wall must have turned solid behind him, because the noise from the other room was gone.

"All set," Jud said. He came over and spoke in a lower voice. "Are you?"

"Sure." Del forced a smile. His mind was about to implode, but he couldn't say anything. These three had worked overtime preparing for a concert that just a week ago they had no idea they would be playing. Mac had chosen the best for him, and Del didn't want to let them down.

A woman stepped through a doorway across the room. "Ten minutes," she said. "You can come upstairs if you want."

Randall grinned, his teeth flashing. "Let's go knock 'em dead!"

Jud lifted his hand as if inviting Del to a feast. "After you."

Del headed out and hoped he wasn't the one about to be devoured.

They were crushing him.

The evening sky arched overhead with stars coming out. People were everywhere. Tens of thousands. They filled the area before the stage, crammed tiers of seats beyond, and overflowed the hills. A sea of minds. He was drowning in an empathic flood.

He must have gone to the center of the stage, because he was standing there, holding a michael. His mind sought refuge in a monotonous litany of nonsensical English words he had learned in the past week. Maid, grade, stayed, laid. He couldn't remember his songs. He could only stare at the audience.

"Del, take a deep breath." Mac's voice came over the comm in Del's ear. "Let it out slowly."

Del breathed in, filling his lungs. Then he exhaled.

"Again," Mac said, his voice soothing. Reassuring.

Del breathed slowly. He became aware of music playing. His music. They were doing the intro to "Emeralds." The familiar beat helped calm him. He lifted the mike and thumbed it on. He was supposed to say something, some introduction, he didn't remember what. But he never forgot how to sing. He took a breath and let the words come out:

Green as the bitter nail
They drove into my name
I won't try to fail
Just to satisfy their game

The music from Jud's morpher soared, Anne kept the rhythm on her drums, and Randall finessed the notes on his stringer, sounding even better than in rehearsals. Del went through the song too fast and missed a few words, but he managed.

The mood of the audience was an ocean surging over him. He couldn't separate them into individuals. He didn't realize he was backing up until his legs hit a barrier. He stumbled, looking around, and his voice faltered. He had run into a light amplifier on the edge of the stage. He was so far back, he could barely see anyone in the audience. But he felt them. They didn't understand his song. The music was confusing, they couldn't make out the lyrics, and he had no special effects.

"Del, listen," Mac said. "You have to sing."

Taking a breath, Del lifted his head and sang again:

I'll never listen to the lies
I'll never turn my back on you
Never wait 'til someone dies
To promise my love is true

"Go up to the front of the stage." Mac's voice kept on in his ear, calm and persistent. "Go up."

He tried to walk forward, but he was wading through antagonism. The people didn't like him. They wanted him to finish so Mind Mix could play. He kept singing only because he didn't know what else to do.

After "Emeralds," they launched into an experimental piece Del had been working on with Jud before he had ever heard of Prime-Nova:

Angel, be my diamond star
Before my darkness goes too far
Splinter through my endless night
Lightening my darkling sight

The audience liked this one better than the last, but it was still too different. It only added to their overall impatience. Del shut his mind off then and went into a haze, singing by rote while he drowned in the empathic flood of their moods.

Del slumped in the circular seat at the back of the van while the vehicle hummed through the night. Randall and Anne were asleep in seats up front. Cameron was wide-awake, sitting sideways so he could look over his seat toward the back. Jud, Mac, and Bonnie had joined Del, gathered around the table in the center of the circular seat. The van was driving itself, communing with the traffic grid that controlled Interstate 95 north of Baltimore as they headed to their hotel, to catch some sleep before the next concert.

"What does it matter if I show up?" Del said, depressed.

"Of course it matters," Mac told him. "You agreed to open for Mind Mix at the Philadelphia concert. If you don't show, you're in violation of your contract."

"I'm not backing out," Del said. "But no one will want me to sing when they hear about tonight. I crashed out there."

"You don't know that," Jud said. "It was different, sure, but it might have gone better than you think."

"Believe me," Del said. "I know."

"I thought you sounded great," Bonnie told him.

"Audiences in outdoor concerts always make noise," Mac said. "That doesn't mean they weren't listening."

Jud rolled out a mesh on his lap. As it stiffened into a screen, he flicked up some holicon menus.

"Anything yet?" Mac asked.

Jud scanned the screen. "A lot of holo-chats about Mind Mix."

Del knew the major reviewers were the ones Prime-Nova would read first. "What about the news services?"

"Nothing here--no, wait." Jud paged through several menus. "The Baltimore Solar Site has one."

"What does it say?" Del didn't want to hear, but he couldn't stand not knowing even more.

"Wait a sec--" Jud went silent as he read. Then he said, "It's just about Mind Mix."

"What?" Mac asked. "Nothing about Del?"

Jud looked up with a shuttered gaze. "I guess not."

Del could tell Jud was trying to protect him. "Don't fool with me. Just play it."

Jud met his gaze. "You're sure?"

Del forced himself to nod. "Yeah. I'm sure."

"Can you turn it up?" Anne said.

Startled, Del turned around. Both Anne and Randall were looking over the back of their seats.

"Fine," Jud muttered. "It's Fred Pizwick's column."

A man's voice snapped out of the mesh. "Last night at the Merriweather Post Pavilion, Mind Mix proved once again why they're one of the top groups in the world, with a powerhouse show that left their fans screaming for more." He went on and on about the great performance. Del sat tensely, waiting for the axe, but when Pizwick never mentioned him, he began to relax. Nothing at all was still a negative review, but easier to bear than a slam.

Then Pizwick said, "Unfortunately, last night started on a sour note. Many, in fact. One can only wonder what possessed Prime-Nova to put a shoddy act that crawled out of the undercity on the same stage as some of this decade's most exciting musicians. Billed as 'Del Arden,' and nothing else, Mister Arden showed forty thousand people last night why nothing else appears in his billing. Because he doesn't have it. Don't ask me what he looks like. I've no idea. He hid at the back of the stage during the entire performance. Don't ask me what he sang; I couldn't understand the lyrics. Don't ask me about his show; he didn't have one. Of course one would never suggest he must have slept his way into this job, but after last night's debacle, we can be pretty certain this is the last of Del Arden we'll see."

Silence followed the review. Del felt the same numbness that came when he hit the ground after an unusually hard throw during martial arts practice. It would start to hurt later.

Finally Anne said, "My God."

Jud made an incredulous noise. "That was vicious."

"Fred Pizwick is known for harsh reviews," Mac said. "But that went over the edge."

Yeah. Right. Del wanted to hide. It was bad enough failing in front of his family. To have it happen in front of so many people, covered by a media outlet that went all over Earth--he might as well just go crawl under a rock.

"They'll shout me off the stage in Philadelphia," he said.

"Like hell." Mac thumped the table. "Okay, it's a bad review. That happens. Don't let it get you. You'll learn to ignore them."

"That review is a load of crap," Cameron rumbled.

Del blinked. From his impassive bodyguard, that qualified as an emotional outburst.

"Prime-Nova will pull me off the tour," Del said.

"Maybe," Mac admitted. "But they haven't yet." He leaned forward. "When we get to Philadelphia, you're going to hold up your head, go out on the stage, and sing."

Del tried to nod. He had made a commitment, and he kept his promises. But he didn't know how he would manage.

"I've another review," Jud said. He kept his face and voice carefully neutral.

"Don't play it," Randall told him, his gaze flicking to Del.

"No, go ahead," Del said tiredly. "I want to hear."

"It's Sarah Underwile from the Washington Post." Jud flicked a holicon, and a woman's voice came into the van. She enthused for a while about Mind Mix. Then she said, "In their grueling schedule, the band has asked for an opener to ease their three-hour marathons. Last night, Prime-Nova introduced an unknown, Del Arden, as the warm-up. They've clearly pushed him through as fast as possible, probably to meet the demands of their mega-stars. The surprise is that they chose an undercity artist. Arden appears to have talent; his voice shows remarkable versatility. Whether he can carry a show is another question. If last night was an indication, he's not ready for the major concert circuit."

After a moment, Jud said, "That wasn't so bad."

"She said the same things as Pizwick," Del said. "She was just nicer about it."

"She gave you a line," Mac said. " 'His voice shows remarkable versatility.' It's a usable quote from a major media source."

Del suspected people would just hear the negative review, not the subtler message his manager heard.

"Huh," Jud said, peering at his screen. "You got a review from Jason Mulroney in Down and Below. They don't usually cover Mind Mix."

"Down and Below?" Anne leaned over the back of the seat. "What's that?"

"An undercity newspaper," Jud said. "Here, listen. This is the part about Del."

A man spoke. "For the first time ever, Prime-Nova sponsored an undercity artist in one of their tours, as the opener for Mind Mix no less. Billed as Del Arden, the singer will undoubtedly come under fire, in part for his obvious lack of preparation, but also for his unconventional music, lyrics, and presentation. He's not your typical Prime-Nova artist, and I'll admit to being stunned they took a chance like this. The depth of his composition goes against the purely commercial nature of their stable. I've been critical of Prime-Nova in the past, but this development makes me wonder if I judged them too soon."

Mulroney paused. "The disappointment is that Arden gave such a clumsy performance. No matter how good the material, the delivery matters. With such a strong opportunity to showcase the undercity, I would have wished for a smoother show. His support musicians weren't headlined with him, but they deserve kudos. Anne Moore and Randall Gaithers are well known in the studio circuit, and last night their luminous performances showed why they're in such demand. Jud Taborian further established his reputation as one of the hottest morphers this side of Neptune. Arden may have struggled with a rough start, but this is an artist and band worth watching."

"Hey!" Anne said. "That was almost good."

Del wouldn't have defined The disappointment is that Arden gave such a clumsy performance as "almost good." He was pulling down a strong band. He glanced at Mac. "I owe you an apology."

"You don't owe me anything." Mac smiled wryly. "Except my cut of whatever you make."

"If I had listened to you, I wouldn't be cringing my way through these reviews."

"It'll get better." Mac sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Del.

"Yeah." Randall grinned. "We'll kill 'em in Philadelphia."

Anne's throaty laugh curled around them. "Randy, hon, you got to stop wishing death on our audiences."

Del tried to smile. But he kept thinking about Ricki. Had he slept his way into a job he didn't deserve? Jud, Anne, and Randall had paid their dues and earned their shot at the major circuit. It wasn't only his pride at stake here; he didn't want them to lose their jobs through his failure.

He hadn't known what it would be like. Now he knew--and he didn't see how he could ever face that crushing mental pressure again.

"The traffic grids crashed!" Mac shouted into his comm. "Damn it, Linda, we'll be there. We're at the edge of the city. Just give us twenty minutes."

Del sat tensely with Jud, Anne, and Randall. It was just his luck that the control-grids had collapsed and snarled traffic in the Baltimore-Philadelphia corridor. Nothing had moved for two hours except drivers who illegally jimmied their vehicles free of control. The outlaws snaked in and out of the frozen traffic or leapt into the sky even after the crisis-grid activated, allowing only emergency vehicles to fly. Del and the others had left their hotel with plenty of time to make the Philadelphia concert, but the traffic mess had cut their cushion of time to nothing. He was due on stage in ten minutes.

"What?" Mac said into his comm. "Linda, I can't hear you. The crowd is too noisy." After a pause, he said, "No, don't replace him with another band! We won't be long. Just give us a little more time."

Listening to him, Del didn't know whether to hope he made it in time or that he wouldn't have to go out there and sing.

The Holo Fields outside Philadelphia offered the largest concert venue on the Atlantic Seaboard. Endless meadows surrounded the amphitheater, and audio globes whirled everywhere, carrying the music to the never-ending audience. People spilled all over, running, playing football, buying food from vendors, picnicking. Their minds were a quiescent ocean for now, none focused on Del, but he felt the growing pressure.

Del wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "Mac, how many?"

"You mean people?" Mac asked, distracted. When Del nodded, Mac said, "The current count is more than three hundred fifty thousand, but it's constantly changing. They expect a lot more."

Del's stomach lurched. You'll be all right, he told himself. He couldn't be the first empath who had ever performed before a big crowd.

There had to be a way to survive this.

Linda Hisner, the concert manager, had a crew waiting at the stage for Del. Within moments after his hover-van smacked into its pad, techs were setting them up onstage.

Jud started playing as Del ran onstage. Del was supposed to introduce the band, but the words flew out of his mind. The crowd was at four hundred thousand now--and they were suddenly all focused on him, bursting with impatience, high on excitement. He was drowning in a tidal wave of emotions.

"Del, sing!" Mac was yelling in his ear, and Del finally comprehended that Mac had been talking and talking to him.

The intro to "Emeralds" kept cycling. Del began to sing, then realized he hadn't switched on his mike. He flicked it on and started at the wrong place. After stumbling through several lines, he stopped and started over. The roar from the audience never abated. He wasn't sure they even knew he was singing.

"Go up front," Mac urged. "Go to the front of the stage." He was standing at the edge of the stage behind one of the huge morph engines that bordered it, motioning to Del as well as talking on the comm.

Del forced himself to walk forward as he sang. But the closer he got to the audience, the more his mind shut down. His voice cracked, something that hadn't happened since he was thirteen.

"Del, you can do it," Mac said in his ear. "Relax. Let go."

He couldn't let go. He was shielding his mind so much, he could barely think. What it really meant was that he was suppressing chemicals in his brain. Any more, and his brain would turn off, knocking him out.

Only habit kept him going. He had sung this piece for years. He thought he was standing still, but then he backed into a mesh-amp at the back of the stage. The audience was restless, edgy, more impatient than before he started. People yelled to each other, walked back and forth, waved their arms. It was chaos.

When Jud started the third song, "Sapphire Clouds," Del couldn't sing. His throat just closed up.

"Del, you have to start," Mac said in his ear.

He couldn't.

"Del," Mac said, almost pleading. "Sing."

Del walked over to Mac. When he left the stage, someone shouted, "What the hell did we pay for?"

Del stood in front of Mac, hidden from the audience by the morph engine. Techs were all around them, some checking mesh boards, others staring at Del.

"What the blazes are you doing?" Mac asked.

"I can't." Del was breathing hard, as if he had run a race.

"You aren't a quitter," Mac said. "Everyone gets stage fright. Work through it."

"Mac--" His voice scraped. "I'm an empath. A Ruby psion."

"I know that."

"You don't understand." Del's voice shook. "That audience is still getting bigger. Nearly half a million people."

Comprehension dawned on Mac's face. "My God. I hadn't--it didn't occur to me. Can you feel them all?"

"All of them," Del whispered. "I can't do it."

Mac regarded him steadily. "If you go out there and plummet, you're a professional musician who did his job and had a bad concert. You'll still have the holo-vid and virt deals and maybe someday a chance to perform live when you're ready. If you don't go out there, you'll be the amateur who walked out in the middle of a major job. The first won't kill your career. But if you quit now, you're dead. Prime-Nova won't look past it."

Del couldn't answer. He could hardly think. But if he went down, he would pull Mac, Jud, Randall, and Anne with him. Staring at Mac, he forced himself to nod. Then he turned around and walked numbly onto the stage. Jud and Anne were still playing the "Sapphire" intro. Del stared at the audience. He raised the mike to his mouth. And he couldn't make a sound.

"Do anything," Mac said in his ear. "Anything."

Del sang one of his lowest notes, three octaves below middle C. Jud matched him on the morpher. With wooden precision, Del went through an exercise so familiar, it was like a well-worn sweater, except he sang Ba-a-by instead of ah-ah-ah. He climbed the scale, one octave, two, three, four, five. Jud followed him, and Anne kept up her driving beat. Randall stared as if Del had gone out of his mind, but he continued with an understated version of the "Sapphire" intro, matching it to Del's exercise. Del went up and up, above high C. He didn't normally push it that far, but in his terrified daze, he kept going. He stopped after six octaves and just stood. He felt the incredulity of the crowd, a mix of derision, shock, disbelief, and a swirl of other moods he couldn't decipher.

Then he launched into "Sapphire Clouds":

Running through the sphere-tipped reeds
Suns like gold and amber beads . . .

He stood in that one spot, frozen, and sang his entire set that way, his mind turned off so he could no longer think about the nightmare audience.

"I don't understand," Randall said for the fourth time. "How can you shut off that way?"

Del wished he could fold up and die. The lights in their hotel room were dimmed, but it was still too bright. He wanted to lie in the dark and forget what had happened tonight. Or last night, now that it was into the earliest hours of morning.

Randall and Anne were slumped in armchairs facing a table. Del had collapsed on the bed. Jud was sitting in a beanbag chair in the corner, strumming an acoustic guitar. The Spanish music soothed Del, but nothing could really help. Cameron was slouched in a beanbag against the wall, drinking coffee, half hidden in the shadows, until everyone but Del forgot about him. But no bodyguard could protect him against his own failures.

The door hummed and swung open. Mac walked in, paused and stared at them all as the door closed. Then he went over and dropped into one of the armchairs.

"So what did they say?" Randall asked him.

Mac exhaled. "I couldn't get through to Ricki or Zachary. But Linda told me they're pulling the act."

Del sat up. "I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say.

"Del, I don't understand," Anne said. "In rehearsal, you're incredible. What happened out there?"

"Don't," Mac said softly. "Let him be."

"Why?" Randall demanded. "Damn it, Del, do you know what any of us would give to have the chance Prime-Nova handed you on a platter? How could you throw it away?"

"It's personal." Del felt like a fool.

"It's not personal," Anne said. "It affects us all. If this was a problem, we deserved to know."

"I didn't know," Del said.

"Maybe Prime-Nova won't yank us," Jud said. "I thought this concert went better than the first one."

Randall gave him an incredulous look. "He did an exercise."

"How can someone who sings so well," Anne said, "freeze so badly?"

Del averted his gaze. "I'm an empath." Even saying those few words felt like a violation of his privacy.

"Lots of artists think they're Mister Sensitive," Randall said angrily. "It doesn't fucking give you license to blow the best gig any of us will ever have."

"He doesn't mean it figuratively," Mac said. "He's a full empath. On stage, he picks up moods of the crowd. All of them."

"You mean, what people are thinking?" Anne asked. "I've heard of that. But I thought it was a story."

"Not so much what they think," Del said. "What they feel."

She stared at him. "For half a million people?"

Del swallowed. "Yes."

"Good Lord," she said. "That would explain a lot."

"I tried to shut them out." Del stared at his hands. "I couldn't. I ended up shutting myself down."

"Oh come on," Randall said. "If you're really one of these empaths, why don't you just let the audience in?"

Del looked up at him. "What?"

"Let yourself feel their reactions," Randall said.

Del couldn't believe it. "Why would I want to soak up five hundred thousand people hating what I do?"

"Maybe that's why they hate it," Randall said. "Man, I've seen you practice. You're so mesmerizing, it annoys the shit out of me. When you get on stage, you turn it all off. So why would they like it? Maybe you should quit hiding and take in what they give you. That is, if you really are an 'empath,' and this isn't some half-assed excuse."

"If I opened my mind to that many people," Del said flatly, "I would go catatonic."

"Could you do it partially?" Jud asked. "I read a little about empaths in my psych class in college. Can't you give back what you get from people? I mean, if you picked out someone who liked what you were doing and fed it back to them, maybe you could affect more people."

"I don't know." Del couldn't imagine opening up even to a fraction of that onslaught.

A knock came at the door. Mac looked up with a start. "Are any of you expecting anyone?"

"Not me," Anne said. The rest of them echoed her response.

Frowning, Mac went to the door and touched the ID panel. An androgynous voice said, "Transmission blocked."

"Huh." Mac flicked through a few displays on the panel. "Whoever is out there has a Prime-Nova security clearance."

Del wondered what it said about the people he worked for, that the employees of an entertainment conglomerate needed security clearances. "Who is it?"

"I don't know." Mac opened the door.

"It's about time." Ricki stalked inside and ignored everyone else as she zeroed in on Del. "What the hell went on up there?"

Del scowled at her. "I'm glad to see you, too."

Ricki came over and sat on the bed. She spoke in a softer voice. "What happened, babe?"

"I clutched." He didn't want to ask the next question, but it came out anyway. "Why are you here?"

She started to reach for him, a subtle gesture, then pulled back. "I thought it would be easier for you to hear it from me."

"They're pulling me."

"I'm afraid so."

Del was aware of everyone staring at them. Anne's mouth had fallen open, and Jud stopped playing his guitar.

"Well, well," Randall said sourly. "Maybe Fred Pizwick had it better than we thought."

Ricki turned to him with a gaze that could have chilled ice. "Do you like your career?"

"Yeah, sure," Randall said.

"Do you want to continue having it?"

He watched her uneasily. "Yeah."

"Then shut the fuck up," Ricki said.

Randall reddened, but he didn't say anything more.

Ricki turned back to Del. "You've never been on stage before, have you?"

"No," he admitted. "Never."

She glanced at Mac. "You're a rat, Tyler."

"I told you he had no experience," Mac said.

"You were negotiating," Ricki said. "Convincing us that he had so many people interested, you didn't need to impress us."

"No," Mac said. "I was telling you the truth."

"No one does that in this business." She frowned at Del. "If you get stage fright that bad, why didn't you talk to me?"

"I didn't realize I would freeze." His anger sparked. "And when would I have said anything, Ricki? You disappeared after--" He stopped, aware of everyone in the room. "After the Star Tower."

Her voice tightened. "You could have asked Mac to find me."

"Why?" Del was as bewildered as he was angry. "Why not tell me how to reach you?" In a low voice, he said, "If someone walks out on me, I'm not going to chase them."

"Most men would have, for Ricki Varento," she said.

"You're worth it," he murmured. "But I don't grovel." Hearing the words, he wondered if the personality of a Ruby prince was far more ingrained in him than he had wanted to admit.

She rubbed her eyes. "No, I suppose not."

"The next concert is New York." Del didn't know what he was going to say until it came out. "Give me one more chance."

Ricki raised her sculpted eyebrows. "You want us to let you on stage again? After what happened the last two times?"

"I can do it." Del thought he was insane, but he wanted this too much to give up. "I didn't have any idea what would happen that first time. For the second one, we were late, and I didn't have time to prepare." He took her hand, knowing how it looked, but the hell with what the others thought. "I can do it."

"It's not my decision, babe."

"But what you think matters." He had seen how people reacted when they found out Ricki Varento produced his vids. Her power went far beyond the studio. "If anyone can talk Prime-Nova into it, you can."

Ricki pulled away her hand. "Maybe I don't want to. If you plummet again, that's it. You might never tour again. Maybe you ought to let it go, before it gets any worse."

"It won't." Del pushed aside the misgivings flooding him. "Tabor and I have been talking about a way I might beat this problem. I can do it."

"We're playing the Cosmos Stadium in New York," Ricki said. "It isn't our largest venue, but it's one of the most important. You're going to have critics from every major mesh outlet there. If you bomb, they'll pulverize you."

Jud spoke from the corner. "This second concert wasn't a disaster. He sang better than the first time."

"He walked off the stage," Ricki said sourly.

"It won't happen again," Del told her.

Mac spoke. "Are you sure, Del? You told me a week ago you could do this, and now you regret that decision. The same thing could happen if you go on in New York."

"And Mind Mix is pissed," Ricki said. "Tristan and Tackman want you off the tour."

"What about Rex?" Mac asked. "He's the front man."

"Rex thinks Del is brilliant," Ricki admitted.

Del almost fell off the bed at that. He said nothing, though. He could sense only the outermost shell of Ricki's mind, but he could tell she didn't like being pushed.

Ricki glanced around at Jud, Anne, and Randall. "You all want to go on stage with him in New York?"

Jud answered immediately. "Yes. Absolutely."

"I'd like another shot at it," Anne said.

Ricki considered Randall. "What about you?"

After a pause, he said, "Yeah."

"How are the reviews for last night?" Ricki asked.

"We haven't looked," Anne said. With a grimace, she added, "We weren't up to it."

"I need to hear them before I decide," Ricki said.

Jud put down his guitar and unrolled a mesh screen across his knees. After a few moments, he said, "I've one from the Inquirer. They liked Mind Mix. This is the part about Del."

A man's voice rose into the air. "The opener, Del Arden, was a puzzle. He ran onto the stage and literally stumbled into his first song, so out of breath you could barely hear him. Quite frankly, the boy looked terrified. Given that no record exists of him ever playing any venue, it isn't surprising he flat-lined in front of such a large audience. One wonders why Prime-Nova put him up there. Or maybe not. Because whatever his faults, this boy can sing. Let's hope that in the future, Prime-Nova better prepares its talent."

"That wasn't so bad," Anne said, looking hopefully at Ricki.

The producer just grunted.

Del could see Jud reading something else on the screen.

"You find another?" Ricki asked.

"Not yet," Jud said, avoiding their eyes.

"Stop protecting me," Del said. "Read the blasted review."

Jud looked up. "It's Fred Pizwick."

"Pizwick is an asshole," Ricki said.

"Why is he reviewing a Philadelphia concert?" Randall asked. "I thought he worked the Baltimore circuit."

"Hundreds of mesh services carry his column," Mac said. "He covers whatever he wants. And apparently he wants Mind Mix."

"No he doesn't," Ricki said. "He came to crow over Del."

That surprised Del. "Why? Do you know him?"

"Not well," Ricki said. "But enough. He wanted to be an opera singer, but he couldn't make it even with voice augmentation. He's going to hate you no matter what you do. I'll bet he saw your talent as soon as you started singing. And here you are, 'wasting' it on holo-rock. It's the ultimate insult to someone like him."

"Do you want to hear his review?" Jud asked.

Ricki glanced at Del.

"Yeah, go ahead," Del said. He would have rather been hit by a cement block, but if he wanted another chance, he had to know what the decision makers at Prime-Nova would hear about him.

Pizwick's voice invaded the room. "If you paid money to hear the warm-up in Philadelphia, please accept my condolences. I'm often astonished by what undercity hacks stoop to calling music, but it goes from outrage to robbery when Prime-Nova charges people to hear vocal exercises. Yes, that's right. Last night the good citizens of Philadelphia were subjected to Del Arden standing like a frozen carp, running through exercises even his beleaguered vocal coach must find painful. Adding insult to injury, he was using a bob, or for those of you less familiar with music terms, a Roberts Enhancer. The device augments the human voice, making someone sound as if, for example, he has an increased vocal range. So we witnessed the embarrassing charade of a boy pretending to a six-octave range. Mind you, this was after our dear amateur stormed off the stage in the middle of a song. Has Prime-Nova lost its collective mind? Mercifully, rumor has it that the 'remarkable' Del Arden has been yanked from the lineup. Thank God."

"For crying out loud," Anne said. "That's beyond harsh. I can't believe they published it."

"Oh, people love that stuff," Randall said. "They're probably arguing it all over the mesh."

"He's lying," Del said angrily. "I've never used an enhancer."

Ricki's face was thoughtful. "We may be able to start some bad press against him on that one. You can't protest a reviewer saying he doesn't like your work, but if he misrepresents it and then suggests Prime-Nova defrauded people by charging for the performance, he's going over the line."

"He's caused a stir," Jud said, reading from his screen. "It looks like several other reviews mentioned Del using a michael. People are either lambasting Pizwick for sloppy reporting or else cheering him on."

"Can you find one of the other reviews?" Ricki asked.

"Yeah, I think so--" Jud fell silent, then said, "Okay, this is Lynne Kalowski with North American News Media."

Randall let out a whistle. "That's big time. And she never reviews holo-rock."

A woman's voice rose into the air. "--went on before Mind Mix. In many ways, it was an unremarkable opener. Like many of the concertgoers, Arden was caught in the traffic-grid meltdown south of Philadelphia last night. His band arrived late, but gamely ran onstage and launched their act. Arden left the platform not long after, one assumes to catch his breath."

Then she said, "What followed has to qualify as one of the strangest chapters in holo-rock history. Arden came back and sang a glorified exercise. But oh, what an exercise. He soared through over six octaves, encompassing the entire range of the normal human voice, both male and female. He used nothing more than a michael, a simple amplification device. In response to my inquiries, a Prime-Nova spokeswoman allowed me to examine Arden's equipment to verify it didn't augment his voice. Why this boy is doing rock, I have no idea, but it was worth sitting through a form of music I normally avoid for those glorious moments of virtuosity."

Anne burst out laughing. "That's great! She hates holo-rock anyway, so even if we sucked slime, it wouldn't matter. He did something she liked, so that's all she reviewed."

Ricki's smile was more predatory than amused. "She'll make Pizwick look like a fool."

Although Del was grateful for a positive comment, he had heard this one all too often. Why waste your talent on that noise? He wanted someone to appreciate the music he loved, not the music they wished he would do.

"Here's another one," Jud said. "It's from Jason Mulroney."

The voice of the undercity critic came on. "--same opener as last night. This time I had a better chance to listen to the lyrics. I was struck by the comparison between Arden's songs and the usual Prime-Nova fare. Consider this verse in a ballad written by Arden: 'Born to live in a vanished sea / Lost to seeds of a banished need / Caged in desperate hope for all days / Rubies must give their souls in all ways.' Now a typical verse from Mind Mix: 'Yeah, baby, yeah, baby, yeah / uh-huh, baby, love me, uh.' Sure, Mind Mix sings it with all the bells and holos, a great tune, and plenty of effects. But so what? The lyrics are still stupid."

Anne had been taking a sip out of a mug she had picked up, but at Mulroney's last statement, she spluttered coffee all over the table. "I can't believe he wrote that."

"I've no idea what Arden calls his song or any of the others he did," Mulroney continued. "He never once gave titles or otherwise addressed the audience. He looked more frightened than anything else. But he went through an entire set with similarly involved lyrics. I would love to get him in for an interview to find out what they mean. Let's just hope this artist gets over his stage fright soon and really starts performing."

"Mind Mix is not stupid," Ricki grumbled. "They compose by sound, not word. Their artistry is in how it all fits together."

"Oh come on, Ricki," Mac said. "You can't compare what they do to Del's work."

"He wants to interview me!" Del said.

"We'll put the PR people on it," Ricki said absently, lost in thought. She considered Del. "With those reviews, I can argue with the higher-ups to give you another chance." Her gaze turned to steel. "But if you plummet this time, that's it. You got it?"

"You won't regret it," Del said. He would make it work.

If he didn't fry his brain.

VI: The Cosmos

"This isn't a costume," Del growled. "It's embarrassing."

Mac stood back and considered him. Although he supposed he should have expected Del's cranky mood, given how the concert had gone yesterday in Philadelphia, he had thought it would improve this morning, after Prime-Nova agreed to let him play New York.

It didn't surprise him the clothes made Del self-conscious. The black mesh pants fit him like a second skin and rode low on the hips, with his ring belt even lower. Few people could pull off wearing that outfit, let alone look as good in it as Del. Mac had known Del wouldn't like it, but he also knew what worked onstage.

"You look good," Mac said.

Del splayed his hand over his bare chest. "I need a shirt."

Mac braced himself for the explosion. "I think you should go without it."

"Are you out of your mind?" Del scowled at him. "Besides, I signed that costume clause in my contract."

Mac couldn't help but laugh. "Believe me, you could get away with wearing a lot less than this and no one would complain."

"Not funny, Mac."

The door of the hotel room hummed and swung open, admitting Jud and the tech Bonnie. Jud just glanced at Del as he walked by, but Bonnie stopped in her tracks and gaped.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, my."

Del's face turned red. "Don't you guys knock?"

Jud flopped down in the beanbag chair and picked up his guitar. "You need a shirt."

"Thank you," Del said.

Anne ambled into the room. "Hey, Del. Nice outfit."

"For flaming sake!" Del said, crossing his arms.

Randall walked past her. "You going without the shirt?"

"No!" Del glared at Mac. Then he glared at Cameron, who was just coming in. "My room is turning into Grand Central Starport."

The Marine regarded Del with the hint of a smile, then dropped into an armchair, stretched out his long legs, and poured himself a smart-mug of the coffee Mac had left on the table. His mug, which was supposed to pick up cues about his mood from his movements and hand, turned dark purple, gave a spurt of Del's song "No Answers," and fell silent as if to comment on the quality of the music, or lack thereof.

"Great," Del muttered. "Even the dishes are reviewing my music." He swung around to Mac. "You must have a shirt I can wear."

"All right." Mac relented and turned to the pile of clothes he had thrown on the bed. He pulled out a skin-tight muscle shirt. "How about this?"

"I am not going to wear that," Del said.

Bonnie smiled. "He'll get boys following him, too."

Anne's throaty laugh rumbled as she dropped into the armchair next to where Cameron sat. "They will anyway."

Del's face flamed. "What?"

"Oh come on," Randall said, slouching in his chair while he loaded a mug with coffee. "You can't be that innocent."

Anne stood considering Del. "Pick a more subtle shirt," she decided. "You don't need to be blatant."

"What, these pants aren't blatant?" Del demanded.

"Honey, the pants are dynamite," she told him.

Mac pulled out a long-sleeved white shirt. "This is more like what you wear." He wondered why Del was in such a bad mood. The clothes probably, but embarrassment usually made him quiet rather than testy. Mac suspected it was Ricki. She had stayed with Del last night, but she was nowhere in sight this morning.

Del shrugged into the shirt. It fit snugly and was open at the collar. A faint shimmer overlaid it, a mesh that molded the shirt to his body and would glint in the stage lights.

"Looks good," Anne decided. "Sex without sleaze."

Del tugged on his cuff. "I look stupid."

"You don't, believe me," Bonnie said, her eyes large.

"What about his hair?" Randall asked. "He ought to cut it."

Anne shook her head. "Prime-Nova doesn't want him to."

"I think it's nice," Bonnie said.

"Jud," Del said desperately. "Rescue me."

A ripple of music came from the corner. Jud was sprawled in the beanbag, playing his acoustic guitar. "You'll have to trust the women on this one. I have no idea what you should wear."

Del shifted his weight back and forth as if he wanted to run away but had nowhere to go. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as possible," Mac said.

"Why?" Randall asked. "It only takes a couple of hours to reach New York. If we go now, we'll be there before noon. The show isn't until seven tonight."

"We could have slept longer," Anne grumbled.

Mac thought of the Philadelphia concert. "I don't want to risk being late again."

Del walked over to Mac and spoke in a low voice. "Did you see anyone come out of here earlier this morning?"

"You mean your room?" Mac asked.

Del nodded, his eyes averted.

Mac wondered what the hell Ricki was doing, jerking Del around this way when he needed support. "No. Sorry. But I was in my own room most of the time."

"Yeah. Well. I don't have to wear this clown suit until the concert." Del spun around and stalked to the bed. He grabbed a pair of smart-jeans and a black T-shirt out of his throw bag, then strode into the bathroom and banged the door behind him.

"What's he so drilled about?" Randall said.

No one answered.

The heavy walls of the room muted the rumble of the crowds in the Cosmos Stadium above them. Del stood by a table, gripping his bottle of beer. He didn't know why he bothered drinking the stuff; it had no effect on him. But he needed something.

He felt painfully self-conscious in his getup. It could have been worse; Mac had at least picked clothes similar to what Del usually wore. These were just more--hell, he didn't know the English for it. Skolian Flag had a perfect word. It translated into harboring the night, which didn't make much sense, but anyone who spoke Flag would understand. Sexually suggestive, with a touch of the audacious. He was going out on that stage to harbor the night. Except he was a skinny guy from the farm, so all he was going to harbor was his own stupidity.

Mac spoke behind him. "You'll be all right."

Del decided to quit brooding. Turning around, he saw Mac leaning against the bar, drinking a beer.

"I should go join the band," Del said.

"They're okay with you staying here. They know why."

Del took a deep breath, trying to relax. "I can feel the audience. Like an avalanche above me."

"Listen." Mac came over to him. "Just go to the front of the stage. That's half the battle. Let people see you."

Del scowled. "In this getup I'm wearing, people will laugh."

"Trust me, they won't." Mac regarded him curiously. "How can you be an empath and not know how people react to you?"

"I feel their moods," Del said. "If I let myself, and if their reaction is strong. That doesn't mean I understand them." He thought of Ricki, who had disappeared this morning, and his anger surged. How could she moan with pleasure in his arms at night and then vanish the next day? No, damn it, he wouldn't think about her, not now. He needed to concentrate on the concert.

"So you can tell if someone notices you," Mac said. "But you don't know what they notice?"

"Essentially." Del squinted at him. "If I did know, I'd probably be so nervous about it, I'd be afraid to move."

Mac smiled. "Just be yourself, then."

Easy for him to say; he didn't have to wear these clothes. "How much longer?"

"About five minutes. You remember how to start?"

"Introduction. I won't forget this time."

"And you've changed the order of the songs."

"I'll remember." Even if he forgot, it would come back as soon as Jud started playing. They had put "Sapphire Clouds" first because Mac thought it had a catchier melody. Del had never considered his songs "catchy," given how much everyone seemed to want to miss them, but he figured Mac knew what he was talking about.

"You ready?" Mac asked.

He managed to nod. "Let's go."

Cameron was waiting outside the doorway. He followed them up a narrow stairway to the backstage area. The noise of the crowd echoed in the indoor stadium. The pressure didn't crush Del as much as last night; even if he hadn't known they were performing for only ten thousand people, he would have been able to tell.

Anne met them at the top of the stairs. She beamed at Del. "You look a lot calmer tonight."

Del felt about as calm as a spaziotic-jumping-fly from the planet Diesha. But he said, "You bet."

Randall and Jud joined them. "You all set?" Randall asked.

"Couldn't be better," Del lied.

Jud was watching him. "Just remember. Stay at the front."

"I will." Del motioned toward the stadium. "With so many people in those tiered seats, though, they can see me no matter where I stand."

"And they'll see the holos of you we added to the show," Mac said. "I checked with the techs earlier. The screens are set."

Jud lifted his hand. "Then let's do it!"

Bonnie pulled aside a curtain separating them from the stage. Del took a breath, then ran with the band out into the lights. As soon as they appeared, the noise in the arena surged. The audience crammed the place, so much that Del wondered if the concert promoters had oversold the arena. People jammed the open area at the front of the stage, chairs on the main floor, and tier after tier of seats above them. They were calling, whistling, holding up laser-light candles, and climbing rails that separated the tiers from the main floor. Security guards hauled them down and put them back in their own section.

The rippling lights in the air flustered Del. But this time, he didn't lose touch with everything. He was aware of Jud to his right setting up his morpher, of Randall on his left flicking strings, of Anne behind him tapping a cymbal. Fighting his instinct to back up, Del went to the front of the stage. The kids below were talking to each other, calling to friends, or looking at him, waiting to see what he would do. Jud started the intro to "Sapphire Clouds," rolling through the fast-paced measures.

Del wondered if these people had heard his show was a disaster. No, don't think about that. Concentrate. Just pick one. One person. One mind.

"Hey, sweets, you're gorgeous," a girl called up. Her friend gave her a shove, laughing, her face red.

All right, Del thought. You're the one.

Then he lowered his mental shields.

A sea of emotions crashed into him. He reeled and actually started to fall. He was drowning!

No. Del caught his balance and focused on the girl, desperate for an anchor. Just her, no one else. Her mood swirled; she was aroused, not only from the excitement of the concert, but from him. A flush went through his body.

Jud and Randall were cycling through the intro, waiting for him. Del took a breath and sang straight to the girl:

Running through the sphere-tipped reeds
Suns like gold and amber beads
Jumping over blue-winged bees
Kiss me, don't tease
Running, running, running

He changed the fourth line for the girl, from Don't catch me please. He had written "Sapphire Clouds" when he had been eleven, from the sheer delight in racing across the endless plains that surrounded his home village:

Flight of bubbles everywhere
Pollen dusting in my hair
No more troubles anywhere
Sapphire clouds above the air

The girl was staring at him with a rapt gaze. Del took everything he picked up from her--desire, delight in the music, excitement--and sent it back. As their link strengthened, it also widened, taking in her friends, then others around her. They liked his song, liked his appearance, liked the music. He kept building the connection, reaching out to more people in front of the stage.

He had written the next verses when he was older, after his life had gone to hell. The music changed abruptly, shifting into a minor key.

Memories fade in life's strain
Winds of age bring falling rain
Cornucopia of lives
Of years and joys and grieving sighs

People in front of him were dancing, bodies jumping with the music. Del didn't know if they had done that at his other concerts; he had been too far back to see. In his side vision, he saw a giant holo of himself high above the stage. He was dancing, stepping back and forth as he often did when he practiced alone. Gods, how mortifying! He never let anyone know. Yes, men danced on Earth. But they never did on Lyshriol. It was forbidden. Yet here he was, doing it in front of thousands of people, and he couldn't stop because it might break his link with the small part of his audience in front of the stage. If he lost that focus, a tidal wave would rush in and drown him.

Recall Sapphire Clouds on high
Drifting in an endless sky
Childhood caught and kept inside
To treasure after days gone by

His mind jumped to people farther back in the arena, widening his link. He was losing control, but he couldn't stop. He felt as if he were on a neuro-amp high. His feedback loop with the audience surged and he threw back his head, letting go with the joy of singing to people who wanted to hear him.

Del barely realized he had finished the song when people started clapping. Although they had done that at the other concerts, he knew the difference. It had felt obligatory before; here they cheered with gusto.

"Yes!" Mac shouted in his ear. "You've got it."

Del's mind lurched with the onslaught of emotions buffeting him. It was like being on a roller coaster he couldn't stop. Jud was playing the next song. "Diamond Star." Del lifted his gaze to the scaffolding of the distant roof. In his mind, he looked beyond, into the night, past the stars. This is for you, he thought to the only woman he would ever truly love.

Then he let go, soaring through the first verse and into the chorus, A diamond, a diamond, a diamond star.

And so he went, in an ecstatic haze while his mind reeled in an empathic overload.

Anne was laughing, her gorgeous voice filling the green room under the stage. "He forgot the introduction again!"

"Who the hell cares?" Randall said, laughing with her. "They can't yank us now, not after an ultraviolet scream like that."

Del stumbled into the entranceway, his body vibrating with the sounds of Mind Mix playing above them. He hung onto the doorframe and stared at the others. He was aware of Cameron on one side of him and Mac on the other, but Del couldn't focus on anything. His mind was whirling.

"Here he is!" Randall strode over and clapped Del on the shoulder. "Now that was a show. You just needed a new pair of pants, heh?"

They all gathered around him, Anne, Jud, Bonnie, Randall. Del tried to answer, but he couldn't speak. It didn't matter. They were doing all the talking.

"Man, you're flying," Randall said. "What'd you take?"

Del focused on him. "Take?"

"You gotta watch that," Anne told him. "Your pupils are wide as the moon. If Soo-Ling catches you, Prime-Nova will get pissed."

"He didn't take anything," Mac said, maneuvering Del past them. "We'll be right back." He pulled Del toward another door.

Then they were alone, in the room where Mac had brought him before the show. Del collapsed on the couch, his booted feet on the coffee table, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. He couldn't get off the roller coaster, he was going into overload--

Mac's worried face swam into view above Del.

"Thank God," Mac said. He moved out of view.

Del lifted his head. He was still slouched on the couch with his legs across the table, but now Mac was sitting next to him, his face pale. Although Del felt a little strange, his mind had settled, and he was more in control.

He rubbed his eyes. "What happened?"

Mac spoke quietly. "Do you have epilepsy?"

Del looked up with a start. How had Mac known to ask that? "No. But my father did, so we've all been tested. I never showed any signs of it."

"Your father?" Mac looked surprised. "We had no idea."

Apparently the Allieds didn't have spies as good as they thought. "It's hardly something we talk about to your military."

"I think you need to talk to me," Mac said quietly. "You just had a convulsion."

What? No, that couldn't be. "I didn't feel anything."

"You stiffened and your eyes rolled back in your head." Mac's face was pale. "Then you jerked for about ten seconds."

Del didn't want to hear this. "That's never happened before."

"Tell me about your father," Mac said. When Del stiffened, Mac frowned at him. "It's your health at stake."

"My health is fine."

"Damn it, Del, if live performances give you seizures, I need to know what's going on."

Del didn't want to talk about so private a matter, but he knew Mac wouldn't let it go. "I never saw my father have one. They happened before he met my mother because his people didn't have good medical care. But she brought in doctors, and they helped him."

"Do you know why he had seizures?"

"It's an overload in the brain. Too many neurons fire." Del spoke with difficulty. "Psions, what you call empaths and telepaths, have extra neural structures. My father had even more than most. When he was a baby, his family died in an avalanche. He was in a mental link with them, and it damaged his brain. After that, if his empathic centers were overstimulated, he had a convulsion." Del didn't need a medical degree to know he was describing a more severe version of what had just happened to him. His seizure couldn't be serious, though. His brain was just adjusting, like untrained muscles cramping because they weren't used to a workout. With practice, he would be fine.

"I don't know what you did out there," Mac said. "But the price is too high. I want you to stop."

"Stop?" Del smiled. "Mac, it worked."

Mac frowned at him. "You looked like you were drilled out of your mind. If Soo-Ling had seen you come offstage, she would have fined you twenty thousand on the spot."

"I didn't take anything! I can't help how I looked."

Jud suddenly opened the door and leaned inside. "You aren't going to believe this. Mind Mix isn't done playing, and one of the media biggies has already put out an Arden exclusive."

Del's pulse lurched as he jumped to his feet. "Good or bad?"

Jud smirked at him. "You'll have to decide for yourself."

Del regarded him warily. "If this is a joke--"

"No, really," Jud told him. "Come listen."

Mac stood up between them. "Del, we aren't done."

"Don't worry," Del said. "I know what I'm doing." He didn't, but he felt fine.

Del went with Jud into the green room, past Cameron, who was leaning against the wall by the door. Although the Marine seemed as impassive as usual, Del had the odd impression his bodyguard was amused. Huh. Cameron never laughed, he just hulked around and looked intimidating. Anne, Randall, and Bonnie were sitting on the floor around Jud's mesh, which lay on an equipment box.

"Why don't I get that treatment?" Randall was saying as he laughed. "I'm mortally wounded!"

"Just think what a boost it would be to your career." Anne raised her voice into a higher pitch. "Oooh, Randy," she squealed.

"Oh, stop," Bonnie said, reddening.

"What's going on?" Del asked as he walked up to them.

"Hah! He's here." Anne yanked him down so he landed next to her, then flicked a holicon above the screen. "Your first review for tonight's performance, Mister Heartthrob Arden. We've cycled through it three times."

"Heartthrob?" Del asked. He didn't recognize the word.

A woman's voice leapt out of the comm. "--who cares about Mind Mix? Let me tell you, girlzo, the ultra swivel tonight was in the hips of one Del Sweet-cheeks Arden."

"What the blazes?" Del's face heated up. "Who is that?"

"Careful what you tell your parents, Ell-bees," the woman went on, "or they'll call in the conking boredom police and zip the latest zap on your sweet dreams. Unless you zap your mom a holo of this boy first; then she'll want a copy for herself."

Anne let out a hoot of laughter. "Del Arden, the wicked wet-dream king, out to corrupt the teeny-bee bops of America!"

"I can't even understand what she's saying," Del muttered.

Jud knelt down and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's a rough review, I know. You'll just have to soldier through."

The woman continued. "You've heard the establisho crockers complaining about this one, haven't you? Now you know why. Gander a look-see at our mesh-mall, girlzo. We've got holos galore for your viewing entertainment." She was literally purring. "And let me tell you, with a face like that and his--other attributes--oh yes, this boy Del is definitely entertainment."

"I don't believe this." Del didn't know whether to die of embarrassment or crawl under a bed and hide. "Why is she talking about me that way?"

Randall smirked at him. "Congratulations. You've just become the latest bees-bopper idol."

"You know," Del said, "I would really appreciate if you all would quit laughing at me and explain what that woman is saying."

"It's the Ell-bee set," Bonnie said in a softer voice than the others. "It comes from Little Bees. L-B. That came from bopper bees." She smiled shyly. "I used to subscribe to Elba's mesh-mags. We always listened to what she said."

"They called them teenyboppers a long time ago," Anne said. "I don't know what it used to mean, but now it refers to one of the biggest interactive clubs on the mesh. Mostly adolescent girls. They shop at the Ell-bee mesh-malls, set up virtual concerts, talk their own lingo, and start fan clubs for whoever Elba the Queen Bee talks up as the latest hot boy."

"And what you just heard," Randall told him with a flourish, "is the Queen Bee herself. Talking you up."

"Oh." Del had no idea what to make of it. "That's good, isn't it?" He squinted at them. "I hope."

"Sure it's good," Anne said. "Elba's a hoot, weird as all git-go, but the Ell-bees are great. They don't do virts much because of the expense, but they'll zap up your latest holo-vid, no problem."

"I would have," Bonnie said, smiling.

"He doesn't have a holo-vid," Randall said. "Not yet. Prime-Nova put him on tour to stir up hum about Del Arden."

Jud thumped Del's back. "You have to get into the studio."

"Not just me," Del said. "We, right?" He couldn't do it without them. "You're all going to work with me, aren't you?"

They all went quiet. Then Jud spoke in a more serious voice. "Are you asking us to?"

Mac was suddenly kneeling next to Del. "We can't make any contractual agreements at this time."

"Why not?" Del asked. "They should be on it." He could tell Mac wanted him to be quiet, the same as when Prime-Nova had offered him the contract.

Mac said, "These things have to be--"

"Negotiated. Yeah, I know." Del glanced at the others. "I want you five to work with me on the holo-vid." He tilted his head at Mac. "My manager, who is sweating right now because I won't shut up, will work out the details. So I guess I'm not supposed to say anything else."

Anne's smile gentled. "I'd be pleased to work with you."

"Count me in," Randall said.

Jud nodded his agreement. "Thanks, Del."

Mac rubbed his chin. "We need to check how Elba licensed those holos her people made of the concert. Even if they're mostly of Del, the rest of you are probably in them. The license will be with Prime-Nova, and they'll cross-collateralize it with tour expenses, but the royalties should be counted toward all your accounts."

License? Del had no idea what "cross-collateralize" meant, and "royalties" sounded like something to do with his title, which made no sense. "What did you just say?"

Anne patted his knee. "You are such an innocent."

Randall sat up straighter. "You mean, we'll get part of the Ell-bee sales?"

"Hell, yeah," Mac said. "Elba Malls can't make money off your images without paying." He glanced at Del. "And Jud is right. You need to get in the studio. This is a good break, but you can't capitalize on it until you have at least a vid and preferably a virt, too. That takes time."

"What time?" Del asked. "I've got more than enough songs." He motioned to the others. "They know the music."

Mac regarded him with exasperation. "Del, you need to do more than just sing."

"Why?" Del couldn't figure out why Mac wanted pyrotechnics. "I can sing. I don't have anything to hide."

Mac scowled at him. "Don't get cocky because you had one fairly good concert. I don't care if you're Luciano Pavarotti reincarnated. You don't want a sloppy vid, and neither does Prime-Nova."

Del went silent, feeling uncertain. He hadn't meant to sound cocky. He didn't think that was really the problem, though. Mac was upset.

Del wished he knew why.

VII: Virtual Mind Mix

Mac sank into his chair, relieved to relax in the quiet hotel room. These strange hours tired him out. Although he was fifty-nine, age-delaying treatments made him look younger, which was practically a requirement in this youth-oriented industry. But he felt his age.

At least Del's concert had gone better tonight. The reviews were brief but reasonably good. He still wasn't doing as well as Prime-Nova had hoped, given the opportunity they had handed him, opening for Mind Mix. But they wouldn't yank him from the tour after Del had grabbed one of the hottest markets with the younger female demographic. It wasn't really a surprise; Ricki and Zachary must have realized the potential the moment they saw Del sing. Still, they wouldn't have looked for it this soon, before he had a vid ready.

Except.

Del's convulsion scared the hell out of Mac. He had tried to take the obstinate prince to the hospital, but Del steadfastly refused. Even so, Mac intended to take no chances. He had contacted Philip Chandler, the doctor who certified Del's age. Chandler wasn't a yes-man. He had verified Del was over twenty-five, but only after extensive tests. He would be straight with them if Del had medical problems after he saw Del tomorrow, in D.C.

If they made it to D.C. Although Mind Mix flew to each concert, Mac hadn't convinced Prime-Nova to provide air travel for Del. He could probably arrange a flyer now, though, so they could work on the vid between concerts. It would be grueling to commute between Washington and the cities where Del was performing, but the tour would be over in a month. They could manage that long.

Despite what he had told Del, Mac doubted it would take much to do the vid once they worked out the holos and extras. Del had more than enough material, and the band knew his music. Ricki would object to Jud Taborian because he was undercity, but she'd come around. She would have to be blind not to see how well Jud worked with Del.

So Mac sat in his darkened hotel room and brooded. He felt like a hypocrite. He was Del's manager. He was supposed to wish Del success. But every time Del went on stage; every time someone wrote about him, good or bad; every time Del made eye contact with the audience, Mac cringed. Sure, no one had any reason to attack a minor rock singer. But the human psyche had never been logical. Who knew if some nut would take a dislike to Del and decide to kill him? Most singers had a flare of success for a few years, if they were lucky, and then dropped into obscurity. The same would probably happen to Del. But Mac sweated anyway. One slipup and Del could be dead. Del chose to accept the risk, but Mac couldn't help wanting him off the tour.

The room's AI said, "Del Arden is at the door."

Mac looked up with a start. "Open. And bring up the lumos."

As the room brightened, Del ambled in, wearing a T-shirt and jeans with ragged mesh patches. He smiled at Mac. "I got a comm from Zachary Marksman. He congratulated me on the show."

"Good." Mac wasn't surprised. Zachary was the one who had decided to yank Del off the tour. He probably wanted to minimize any hard feelings if Del found out.

"You should be sleeping," Mac said. "We're flying to D.C. in the morning."

Del went into the kitchenette and thumbed an order into the icer. "I thought the next job was in Boston."

"It is. But you have three days until then. You can work on the vid and virt."

Del looked up. "Isn't that too short notice to get a studio?"

"Yeah. But they'll let us work afterhours." Mac smiled slightly. "Prime-Nova has a lot of studios."

Del regarded him uncertainly. "I've never seen a virt. I don't know what to do."

"The techs put it together. You just sing." Mac took a cube from a pile on the table and lobbed it to Del. As the youth grabbed it, Mac said, "That's Mind Mix's latest."

"Great." Del pulled two beers out of the icer and came over with the drinks in one hand and the cube in the other. He mimed throwing the beer, but when Mac glared, Del grinned and handed it to him. Then he dropped into a nearby chair.

"Do you think Jason Mulroney really wants to interview me?" Del asked.

"Sure. You'll need someone to set it up." Mac flipped open his beer, which cooperated this time. "You need a publicist. Someone to field requests for interviews, send out promotional materials, all that."

"Ricki said something about Prime-Nova looking into it."

Mac snorted. "Ricki won't do anything for an undercity news service. She wants to separate your image from them." Wryly he added, "She'll say it's because they aren't commercial, but I think she just doesn't like them. They don't scrape and bow to her."

Del tilted his bottle back and forth as if suddenly fascinated by the condensation on its surface. "Have you heard from her?"

"Not since Philadelphia." It was three in the morning now, so technically Del's Philadelphia concert had been two days ago.

"I guess she's busy." Del glanced around restlessly. "You know, these hotel rooms all look the same."

"Don't let Ricki get to you."

Del glanced at him like a deer caught in a glare of laser-light lamps. "It's just--I didn't think I hurt her, but now I wonder."

"I'm sure you didn't." The only person Mac saw getting hurt was Del.

"I would know," Del said, more to himself than Mac. "I was upset about the concert, and maybe it came out in how I treated her. But I felt it, Mac. She likes me edgy. I don't understand why she's acting like this."

Mac took a long drink of his beer, cold and frothy. "Men have been trying since the beginning of human life to figure out why women don't act the way we think they should. If you manage it, you'll win a Nobel Peace Prize."

"I can't even understand half of what she says," Del grumbled. "Like what is 'dom' and 'sub'?"

Mac choked on his beer and sputtered out froth.

"What?" Del regarded him with curiosity.

Mac suddenly wished he were elsewhere. He was no innocent, but this was more information than he needed about Del and Ricki.

Del laughed, watching his face. "I've never seen you blush. Come on, give. What does it mean?"

Mac cleared his throat. "It refers to a type of, um, sex play."

"Really?" Del looked even more intrigued. "Like what?"

"You know. Dominance. Submission."

"Dominance and submission of what?"

"For crying out loud, Del. Of the people doing it."

"You mean sex?"

"Yeah, I mean sex."

Del tilted his head. "Dominant how?"

This was excruciating. "One partner is, uh, the dominant one. He, or she I suppose, does things to the other person." He wished Del would start getting it, so Mac could stop saying it.

"What things?" Del asked.

Mac took a big swallow of beer. "Like, uh, tying up someone. Discipline. Um. Spanking. Like that." He squinted at Del. "This isn't really my thing. Maybe we should change the subject."

Del was staring at him. "Oh. Oh." Then he smiled. "You know, if Ricki doesn't--"

"Enough!" Mac's face was definitely heating. "I don't want to know what that smile means."

Del regarded him innocently. "What, I can't smile?"

"So," Mac said too loudly. "Did you have a good dinner tonight? I haven't tried the hotel restaurant yet."

Del burst out laughing. "All right. Yeah, dinner was fine. Some weird thing called a tuna-tish melt."

"You mean tuna fish?"

"I have no idea." Del's smile faded. He fell silent, lost in thought, staring at the floor. After a moment, he said, "I wonder sometimes if they aren't in all of us a little."

"Who?" Mac asked.

Del raised his gaze. "The Aristos."

It took Mac a moment to reorient. Startled, he realized Del was comparing himself to the leaders of the Trader Empire that the Skolians had fought during the war.

"Good Lord," Mac said. "That stuff with Ricki's crowd is just games. A consensual form of play. She wasn't comparing you to an Aristo slave lord."

"I know." Del got up and paced away, then swung around to face Mac. "But the drive to hurt people didn't just appear in the Traders. They may have magnified it to horrific proportions, but it's always been in us."

"Horrific?" Mac raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit melodramatic? I've heard what your people claim, but--"

"We don't claim." Del punched at the air with his fist. "All you Allieds, you sit here satisfied with yourselves while the Traders hack away at my people. Oh, you're safe. Our civilization is so much bigger than yours, you hide in our shadow. And the new Trader emperor is only seventeen. But give him time. He'll turn into a monster just like his predecessors." He pointed at Mac. "One of these days, the Traders will come after all of you. And it'll be too late then for you to listen to us."

That had certainly hit a nerve. Mac pushed up out of his chair and walked over to him. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" Del asked angrily. "About the slavery of billions? Brutality on a scale you can't imagine?"

"I've seen Trader cities," Mac said quietly. "Their people have the highest standard of living among any of our civilizations."

"Of course they do," Del said. "There's over a trillion of them. Owned by several thousand Aristos. How do so few slave owners subjugate so many people? Make their lives pleasant. As long as they obey, they live well and the empire thrives."

"I agree that owning people is abhorrent," Mac said. "I've no love for Aristos. But what you're describing is hardly horrific."

Del met his gaze. "You think a nice house is worth constant oppression? If they step out of line, they die. It's called genocide, Mac. The Aristos can't risk defiance when so few of them control so many people." An edge honed his voice. "So what if you kill a few billion? There's plenty more where they came from."

Mac had heard similar from the Skolian military, when they sought Earth's support in their war against the Traders. They called the Aristos masters at propaganda. Yet Mac had seen a great deal of evidence for how well the Aristos treated their people and very little proof of the Skolian claims.

"Have you actually witnessed any of this?" Mac asked.

Del spoke tightly. "You don't want to go there."

"I want to understand. I'll listen, but not to propaganda."

"Propaganda?" Del looked ready to explode. "We underplay the truth with your people, because your damn government is always accusing us of overreacting. You have no flaming idea."

"Then tell me."

Del ground out the words as if they were broken glass. "They killed my brother Kurj. They tortured my brother Althor. He died. They tortured my brother Eldrin. He got free, but he still hasn't recovered. They shattered my father and fed off his agony. They caught my mother and--and--we got her out, but at first she couldn't even talk."

An image jumped into Mac's mind of the golden woman he had so recently witnessed scolding her son across interstellar space.

Del went on, relentless. "My sister's squad discovered that the Aristos planned to destroy the atmosphere of the world called Tams Station, to crush a rebellion on that planet. Her squad helped the colony evacuate. They got a third of the people out. One third. Think about it. Two thirds of a world died. It's all imprinted in the brains of the squad EIs." His voice cracked. "Yes, I've seen it."

Good Lord. "I'm sorry about your family. I had no idea." Mac knew the Traders had killed Del's sister, the previous Imperator, and his half-brother Kurj, the Imperator before her. The rest of what Del was telling him about his family had never been made public. "I've heard stories of how they destroyed the atmosphere of Tams, but I've never met anyone who saw EI records of it." To say the EI brains of a Jag fighter squadron were classified was akin to saying a beach had a few grains of sand.

Del just shook his head. He walked away, then stopped when a table blocked his way. Sitting down, he stared at the table. "My father lived for years, but he never fully recovered. It's only been a few months since he died."

Mac went around and sat across from him. "It's been a rough time."

Del looked up. "It would be easier if the Aristos just wanted to kill my family. But they want us alive. So they can hurt us."

It wasn't the first time Mac had heard that claim, but before it had been from Skolian officials. Hearing it from one of the people who would suffer at the hands of the Traders was different. "Why would they target you that way?"

"I suppose you could say Aristos are anti-empaths." Del's voice was brittle. "They came out of something called the Rhon Project."

"I thought that project was meant to help empaths."

"It was." Del took a breath. "Being an empath is like--I don't know the word. Like living with this constant, endless pressure. Last night, when I felt how much people liked the concert, it was good. Great. But when you pick up anger, grief, anything like that, it's painful. If we couldn't shut it out, we'd go insane."

Mac thought of the dossiers he had read on the Ruby Dynasty. "Wasn't the purpose of the Rhon Project to help psions create mental shields? To protect yourselves."

Del nodded. "That's why we know how to do it. But Doctor Rhon also changed our genes. Not mine, my ancestors. He was trying to lower our sensitivity to painful input." He gave a strangled laugh. "It didn't quite end up the way he expected."

"The research didn't work?"

"Oh, it worked," Del said. "It created the Aristos. They can pick up empathic signals from psions. Pain signals, both physical and mental. Only those. And you know how the Aristo brain lowers its sensitivity to the signals? By rerouting them to its pleasure centers." His voice cracked. "They're a bunch of sadists, Mac. Hurting us makes them feel good. They call us providers because our pain 'provides' them pleasure. They're brutal and sick, and they think they're exalted, that they have a right to inflict whatever they damn well please because they're gods and we're scum."

Del's words felt like punches. Mac had never heard it this way, with a target of the Aristos looking him straight in the eye, telling it in his words rather than the careful phrases of diplomacy. "I wish my people understood yours better."

"We need each other." Del gave a wry grin. "That's why the Skolian military didn't zap you all for keeping my royal butt here."

Mac smiled slightly, relieved to see Del's mood improve. "You're learning our slang."

"Ultra swivel." Del laughed with a wince. "Like my hips, apparently."

"Sorry about that review."

"It's a lot better than what Fred Pizwick said." Del's smile turned into a frown. "I did not use a Roberts Enhancer."

"Michael Laux on the Atlantic City-Time Hour wants to interview you about that." Mac offered the subject more to take Del's mind off the Aristos than because it had any urgency. "He wants you to do the exercise live, to prove you don't use an enhancer."

"Good!" Del shook his head. "I don't see how Pizwick can get away with saying I used one."

"He won't," Mac said. "But hell, you couldn't pay for this kind of publicity."

Del smiled wryly. "To sell my nonexistent vid."

"We'll get you in the studio tomorrow." Mac glanced at his wrist-mesh. "You should get some sleep. It's almost four."

"All right." Del stood up and rubbed his eyes. "I'll see you." He went to the door, then paused to look back. "And Mac--"

"Yes?"

Del spoke softly. "Thanks for listening."

Mac nodded, wishing he could do more. Like change the universe so one part of the human race wasn't preying on the other.

Del sat down at the console in his hotel room and clicked in the virt cube Mac had given him. A female voice said, "Virtual reality simulation array loaded."

That sounded impressive. "What do I do?" Del asked.

"Your question is vague," the console said. "Please be specific."

"How do I listen to the virt?"

"With yourself or someone else in it?"

In it? Del wasn't sure what that meant. "With me."

"Do you have internal biomech augmentation compatible with a Pacifica tri-media system?"

"Uh, no. I don't think so."

"You'll need a virt suit, then."

"Do you have one?"

"Check the lower drawer of this console."

Del investigated until he figured out how to click open the console drawer. A blue suit inside transparent packaging lay there with a visored helmet. He lifted out the suit. "So do I put this on?"

"That is correct. Remove your clothes first."

He laughed sleepily. "I'd rather hear that from Ricki."

Del changed into the suit and sat down, holding the helmet. With the console telling him what to do, he linked into the virt, then donned the helmet and settled back in the reclining chair. It was comfortable in the dark with the visor over his eyes. If nothing happened, he could get a few hours of sleep before the room AI insisted he get out of bed. Or chair.

The room lightened--no, not the room! He was standing in a rippling field that sparked under golden light. The sweet fragrance of the fresh grass tickled his nose, and a breeze tousled his hair. Insects trilled nearby.

"Hey," Del said. "Ultra."

A man was walking toward him through the field.

"Rex?" Del asked. It looked like the lead singer of Mind Mix.

"Hey." Rex came up and offered his hand. "Good to see you."

Del shook his hand, and Rex's skin felt warm and textured.

"Hi," Del said.

"Would you like a tour?" Rex asked.

"Sure." This was more than Del expected. His family had an entertainment center at home, but it was mostly books, because his parents had wanted their children to read instead of playing virts. It had constantly frustrated Del; out of ten siblings, only he had never learned to read. Sure, an AI could read to him. But he preferred music. His people used songs as their "libraries." In their distant past they had bred the Bards to create and remember historical ballads. Musical archives.

Lyshrioli music bored him, though. He wouldn't have minded learning the art songs or folk music of his people if he hadn't been under so much pressure to drop what he wanted in favor of what everyone else wanted.

He walked with Rex through the meadow. "Do you remember me?" Del asked.

"I remember Mac Tyler," Rex said. "I don't have anything yet for you in this virt. But I'll remember this session."

"You're not really Rex, are you?" Del said.

Rex gave him an apologetic look. "Just an avatar. But you can have real people join you in the virt, if you want."

"It's five a.m.," Del said, laughing. "They're asleep." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "Am I talking out loud in my suit? I mean, if someone came into my room, would they hear me having this conversation with you?"

"Possibly," Rex said. "It depends on your setup. If you have a direct brain to console interface, this all takes place in your mind."

"I'm just wearing a suit."

"Are you subvocalizing?"

"I'm not sure what that means."

"If you think the word," Rex said, "muscles in your vocal cords, tongue, and throat move. The virt suit interprets it as speech." He sounded far more patient than the real Rex would have been with so many questions. "If you subvocalize, it keeps your session private."

"Oh. Okay. I can do that." Del indicated a building with swooping arches ahead. "What's that?"

"It's for your personal concert."

"Actually, I'd rather see you guys practice." Del liked to watch other people rehearse to learn what techniques they used to improve.

"Sure, we can do that." Rex gave a friendly laugh. "Most people want a personalized concert, with the real Rex."

"I know the real Rex," Del said. "You're more pleasant." He immediately felt guilty, given that Rex was the only member of Mind Mix who hadn't wanted him yanked off the tour. "But he's a good guy."

"I'm glad you think so. Here." Rex waved his hand.

Suddenly Del was inside a big, airy warehouse. Mind Mix was rehearsing in the open area. Sort of rehearsing. Rex sang the songs straight through with no stops, and sounded far better than the real rehearsal Del had heard yesterday. Tristan never missed a beat on his drums, and Tackman played his morpher better than in real life.

After a few songs, Del said, "Never mind." He didn't speak loudly, but the rehearsal stopped and both Rex and Tristan appeared next to him.

"Hey," Tristan said. "Glad to meet you." He even cracked a smile.

"Yeah, right," Del said. "The real Tristan can't stand me."

"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself," Rex said. "Would you like to try one of the story virts?"

"What's that?" Del asked.

Rex snapped his fingers and everything went dark. Music started, and somewhere Rex sang, "Honey, your eyes froze me, froze me, yeah, froze me in the night."

A street appeared, soaked from a recent rain. It was night, and a lone streetlamp reflected in the oily water of the alley. A woman in a trench coat walked toward Del, a hat pulled low over her face, her blond hair curling out from under it. She wore heels so high, he wondered how she kept from falling onto her face.

"Hey, honey," she said as she came up to him.

"Uh, hi." Del could see her eyes under the hat. They were large and blue. Icy blue. The virt intensified the color.

"Freeze me, Baaaaaaby," Rex wailed.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" the woman said.

"Del." The way her hair curled over her face was driving him nuts. Well, this was his session. He could do what he wanted. So he brushed it out of her eyes, and her hat slid back, revealing more of her face. She was sexy in a jaded sort of way. Rex kept singing, accompanied by the erotic beat of Tristan's drums.

"So Del," the woman said. "Why are you out here alone?"

"I've no idea," Del admitted with a laugh.

She touched his cheek with a well-manicured finger. "I think a sweet thing like you shouldn't be in a place like this at night. You could get into trouble."

"Freeeeze my heart," Rex sang.

"With you?" Del wondered what would happen if he tried to kiss her.

Her lips parted. "Why don't you find out?"

"I don't know if I should risk it," Del said, smiling. "This song ends with Rex yelling, 'Baby, you done froze my heart and smashed it all over the street.' "

"Come on, honey," she coaxed.

What the hell. Del put his arms around her waist and yanked her close. She felt real. When he opened her coat and slid his hand inside, skimming it under her breast, she felt even better. He had no idea what he was actually doing in the virt suit, and he didn't want to know, but here he kissed her. She molded against him, her face tilted up and her eyes closed. When he tried to caress her breast, though, she stepped away from him.

"You're dynamite, sweetheart," she said.

Rex groaned, "Baby, frazy, baby, crazy."

"Hey," Del said. "Don't go away."

She stayed back. "You're coming on strong, honey."

"You know," he said good-naturedly. "Whoever programmed this virt could have come up with more for you to call me than honey and sweetheart." Then again, this was part of a song with lyrics like "frazy, baby." Maybe he didn't want them thinking up more dialogue for their virtual femme fatale.

"Tell me," Del asked. "How far could I go with you?"

"Now, honey--"

"No, wait, I really want to know." Del felt his face redden. "I'm going to start making one of these virts tomorrow. I was wondering what people could, uh, do in them."

The song stopped, and Rex came up alongside of him on the street. The woman remained standing in place.

"You're making a virt?" Rex asked.

Del blinked, startled. At least Rex wasn't singing anymore. "I would feel really strange," Del said, "if people could buy my virts and, well, you know."

"Screw the simulations?"

"Since you put it so bluntly, yeah."

"It's against the law." Rex indicated the woman, who hadn't moved since he appeared. "She'll kiss you, but that's all. If you're underage, you don't even get kisses. Adults can buy X-rated virts, but Prime-Nova doesn't make them, at least not under that corporate name."

Del regarded him uncomfortably. "Does an artist get any choice in how his virt is set up?"

"Some." Rex pulled out a smoke-stick and lit up. The end glowed green. "Depends how much clout your manager has." He inhaled on the stick and blew out a plume of red smoke.

"Suppose a girl bought your virt and wanted you to kiss her?" Del asked.

"You have more choice on that." Rex puffed on his stick. "Nothing more than a kiss. But your simulation can go on dates with them if you okay those mods when you make the virt."

Del couldn't imagine virtual dates. Of course, he wouldn't really be on them. It would be some program designed to simulate him. Which was even weirder. "What if a guy comes into the virt?"

Rex shrugged. "I'll do a date if they want. You interested?"

"What? No, I didn't mean that!" Virtual or not, Del's face was burning. "Will the one I make for Prime-Nova be that way?"

"Not if you don't want to. But they'll ask you to allow it as an option." Rex seemed amused by his reaction. "Some virt users set up whole households. Or hair-raising adventures to find hidden treasure. Or shopping sprees. All with their favorite rock star. You can program this virt however you want as long as it's legal and not too far out of character for the actual Rex Montrow." He blew a smoke ring. "It can't violate the morals standards, either."

"You mean the censors." As far as Del could tell, they had a ridiculous amount of control over the industry. He was surprised this version of Rex got away with some of his language. Then again, it was mild compared to the real Rex.

"Are there restrictions on words you can say?" Del asked. "Screw is okay. Damn? Yeah, that works. F--" He stopped. "Suppose you want to say f--? Huh. Okay, that doesn't work."

"D-- doesn't work, either," Rex said, laughing. "Or c--"

"What are those?"

"Oh, come on."

Del could guess one of them. "What if I'm a workman, and I need to drill a hole--hey, it let me say it. But not, I'm d-- out of my mind."

"It's the context. The virt analyzes your speech." He considered Del. "You have a thick accent, if you don't mind my saying. English isn't your native language?"

"No. Prime-Nova makes me practice so I won't have an accent when I sing." He paused, feeling odd. The scene around him vibrated. "That's a bizarre effect."

"It's not an effect." Rex blew out a long stream of smoke. "Someone is shaking you."

"Oh." Del started to leave, then stopped. He had no idea "where" to go. What if he couldn't leave the virt? It was a strange thought, alarming and intriguing at the same time.

"I don't know how to stop this session," Del said.

"Just say, 'End virt.' Anything like that."

"Oh. Okay. End virt."

The scene went dark. After a moment, Del became aware of his body in the virt suit. He lifted off the helmet and found himself looking up at Randall. At first he thought his vision was shaking. Then he realized Randall was doing it all on his own.

"Hey," Del said. "How'd you get in my room?"

"You left the door unlocked." Randall laughed blurrily. "You should be more careful. You never know what lowlife'll creep in here." Swaying back and forth, he held up a bottle of clear liquid and two hotel glasses. "We should celebrate."

Del sat up, stretching his arms. "That virt was fun."

"They get boring real fast." Randall pulled over a recliner and sat by Del. "They're too predictable." He poured a glass of whatever was in his bottle and handed it to Del. "Now this is never the same twice."

Del smelled the liquid. "Whoa. What is it?"

"Ouzo. Greek fire water." Randall filled his own glass, took a big swallow, and let out a belch. "Oh, yeah."

Del laughed. "Is that a recommendation or a warning?"

"It's good. Try it."

Del set the drink on the console. "I'm allergic."

"Yeah, right."

"Really." Del didn't want to explain. "I should get some sleep, anyway."

Randall leaned back in his recliner. "You sleep." He lifted his glass to Del. "I'll celebrate for you."

Del smiled. "That virt was almost as good as sleeping."

Randall's eyelids drooped closed. "They're all the same after a while, least ways, the legal ones."

"Legal?" Del asked, intrigued. "What do illegal ones do?"

"Now how would a well-behaved boy like me know that?"

Del grinned. "Hypothetically."

Randall raised his lids halfway, his eyes glinting. "You can do whatever you want. With who you want. For as long as you want. A bliss-node can keep you in for hours. It's the thrill, you know, because you can't leave until the session ends. Like taking tau-kickers, only better. Hell, you can set your own trip. Whatever you want. Women. Wealth. Power." Then he said, "Not that I would know anything about tau-kickers or bliss-nodes."

Del laughed sleepily. "Of course not."

"It's safe, too, sort of," Randall said. "You're not putting anything in your body. No chemicals."

Del sat up straighter. "So nothing inside you can react with it? I mean, physiologically."

"Fizzy what?" Randall's voice slurred. "For someone who just learned English, you have one hell of a vocabulary." He yawned, showing a row of well-formed teeth. "But, yeah, that's right, no chemicals for Soo-Ling to pick up. So she stays happy and you're fine." Then he added, "In theory."

"Why in theory?" Up until those last two words, it had sounded great. "It's harmless, right?"

"Some people claim it'll fry your mind." He finished off his ouzo. "It's wired into your brain. If it goes bad, you can't stop. Not like tau-kickers, where medics can bring you down. Taking someone off a bad node is ugly, like brain-damage ugly."

"Oh." Always there was a catch. "Does it happen a lot?"

"Not that I know of." He contemplated his empty glass, then poured himself more ouzo. "Those stories, they're just bull to scare people. Virts are harmless. Boring as piss, but harmless."

Relief washed over Del. "Why make it so you can't get out? You can leave a regular virt whenever you want."

Randall shrugged. "Supposedly it's more fun, because you can forget it's not real." He leaned back and stretched out his legs. "I dunno. I was never into all that."

Del thought of the concert. "I was so wound up last night, I felt tied into knots. The virt relaxed me."

Randall gave a gravelly laugh. "With Mind Mix?" Closing his eyes, he slumped deeper into his recliner. "God forbid."

"It'd be fun to have a virt of anything I wanted." Del thought he'd make it like his home, except his family would approve of him. "The virtual Rex said I could program any virts I buy."

"Sure . . . if you don't want depth . . ." Randall's chin sunk to his chest.

Del caught Randall's drink just before it fell to the floor. He set it on the console and stood watching his guitarist snore. It was the most peaceful he had seen Randall. He got a blanket from the console drawer and spread it over his guest. Then Del ambled to his bed and flopped down, still in the virt suit. He could never have a conversation about a bliss-node with anyone in his family. His mother would want him to see a psychiatrist. His brother Kelric would send some military squad to pull him off Earth. His sister Chaniece might understand, but she would worry so much, Del would shut up because he felt guilty. His brother Eldrin would look at him with that crushing silent disappointment.

It bothered him most that Eldrin didn't understand. He and Del had similar temperaments. Eldrin had also struggled to read, though he eventually learned. And Eldrin sang. He preferred classical works, but he and Del had the same type of voice. Eldrin had done a few virtual operas when he was younger, where he sang in a studio and it went out on the meshes. Millions had listened. Del had wondered then why his brother never performed live; now he understood.

His last thought, as he drifted to sleep, was that maybe this business with Prime-Nova would work out after all. He had taken tau-kickers for the inspiration his constrained life as a Ruby Heir lacked--and destroyed all his dreams in that one killing mistake. Now he had a new universe to explore. He could experiment with virts to reach a level of creativity he had only imagined before. And it was safe.

After all, a simulation couldn't hurt him.

VIII: The Studio

General McLane motioned toward the back of his spacious office. "There's coffee."

Mac went to the shelf and poured the steaming brew into a smart-mug, which would keep his coffee at exactly the temperature he liked, add whatever extras he wanted, monitor his caloric intake, and even remind him to feed his cat if he asked.

"I don't think he was exaggerating, Fitz." Mac turned around. "The Aristos terrify him. With good reason, it sounds like."

"That assumes what he told you is true," Fitz said.

"If anything, I had a feeling he was holding back." Mac joined him at the table in an alcove. High in a tower, the glass-enclosed nook overlooked Annapolis. Fitz's stratospheric rank carried just as stratospheric duties, but it had its perks. Like this office.

"I have a virtual conference with President Loughten this afternoon," Fitz said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, then laid his arm back on the desk. "She'll want a report on Del."

Mac could almost feel the general's fatigue. As one of Allied Space Command's top-ranked commanders, Fitz had far more to take up his time than worrying about their royal guest. But the general had to worry, especially since it had been his decision to bring the youth to North America, which was why Del had been here when his people pulled out the rest of the royal family.

"I've filed a full report," Mac said. "Use whatever you need."

"That's the thing." Fitz scanned a file on a screen in the table. "Some of it just doesn't fit. Listen to this."

A holo about a foot high appeared above the table. It showed Del at a console talking to his mother.

"Why not?" Del asked. "Isn't it what Devon Majda called me?"

"She most certainly did not," his mother said. "She would never speak that way about a Ruby prince." Roca shook her head. "You would never have agreed to that arranged marriage anyway. If we had tried to betroth you to her, you would have lost your temper."

Mac winced. He had felt awkward enough being present during Del's argument with his mother. Having Fitz replay it only emphasized Del's lack of control over his life.

"That was a private conversation," Mac said.

"I know." Fitz sounded tired. He sat back in his chair and considered Mac. "Do you know who he meant by Devon Majda?"

"Probably a noblewoman," Mac said. After the Ruby Dynasty, the Majdas were most powerful family among the Skolians. During the Ruby Empire, they had been royalty; now they ruled a financial empire.

"The only Devon Majda we have records of was a Majda queen," Fitz said. "She was expected to marry one of the Ruby princes."

Mac could imagine how Del would have responded if his parents had arranged his marriage to one of the Imperialate's most conservative matriarchs. Losing his temper was probably a mild description.

"I'm not sure I see why this would interest Allied Space Command," Mac said. "It's his private business."

"Because it doesn't make sense." Fitz leaned back in his chair. "Devon Majda abdicated her position to marry a commoner. Her sister Corey assumed the title and eventually married one of Del's brothers. A few years later, Trader assassins killed her. Her sister Naaj took the title then."

Mac sipped his coffee. "I'm surprised this wasn't in the files on Del."

"Oh, it's in our files. Just not where you're thinking." Fitz regarded him steadily. "Corey Majda married Kelric Valdoria."

Mac spluttered his coffee. "The Imperator?"

"That's right," Fitz said. "It was just after he graduated with his commission from the Dieshan Military Academy."

What the hell? "That was almost forty years ago."

"Thirty-seven. Eighteen years after Devon Majda abdicated." Fitz spoke quietly. "If anyone discussed a marriage between Devon and Del, it had to have been at least fifty-five years ago."

Mac took a moment to absorb that. Then he shook his head. "It must be some other Devon. A daughter, niece, cousin."

"We have no records of any other Devon Majda. And listen to this." The general flicked a holicon above his screen, and Del's talk with his mother resumed.

"Del, that was years ago," she said.

"Not to me," he told her.

Fitz froze the recording, catching Del's strained look.

"It does sound odd." Mac thought for a moment. "Do you have Del's interview with Major Baxton? The part where the major asked for his age."

Fitz worked for a moment, and the holo changed to show Del and Baxton at a table.

"Your age, please," Baxton said.

Del scowled at him. "Seventy-one.

"In Earth years."

"That is Earth years."

"Freeze," Mac said. When the holo stopped, he pointed to where Baxton's elbow rested on the table. "Can you magnify that?"

Fitz flicked more holos, and Baxton's arm grew until it took up the entire image.

"There on the table," Mac said. "Right at the edge. See the green light?" A chill went through Mac. "If Del was making that up about his age, that light should be red."

"I remember that," Fitz said. "It's a malfunction. We've verified Del's age. He doesn't just look young. He is young. Every doctor's report puts him in his early to mid-twenties."

Mac slowly set down his coffee. "He told me he spent time in a cryogenic womb. It's why we get different values for his age depending on how we test him."

Fitz shook his head. "Being in a womb shouldn't give inconsistent readings. Certainly not with modern cryogenics."

"Maybe it wasn't modern." Mac regarded him uneasily. "We've only had reliable cryogenic sciences for about thirty-five years."

"He couldn't have been in cryo that long." Fitz tapped the screen, and the holo disappeared. "Hell, the longest I've heard of anyone being in--and surviving--is seven years."

Mac let out a breath. "Maybe Del was just talking about some other Devon we have no records on."

He wondered, though, what would happen if the government of an empire decided to keep someone alive whatever the cost, no matter how raw the technology.

"It's not epilepsy." Philip Chandler paged through a holofile with the results of Del's tests. "You show no other neurological problems, either."

Del shifted on the med table where he was sitting, wearing just his mesh-jeans. "I could have told you that."

Chandler regarded him sternly. "You need more sleep."

"I stayed up all night," Del admitted.

"I don't know much about empaths," Chandler said. "I'd like you to see someone who specializes in the treatment of Kyle operators."

It startled Del to hear the words "Kyle operator." It meant the same thing as psion, but he never thought of himself that way. It sounded so mechanical, as if he were a thing rather than a person. "Can you find a specialist?" he asked. They were rare in Skolian hospitals, and the Allieds weren't even convinced psions existed.

"I don't know." Chandler unclipped a light-stylus from the file and made a note in the holofile. He spoke firmly. "My prescription, young man, is for you to eat nutritious meals and get proper rest. Don't take your health for granted."

"All right." Del slid off the table. He just wanted to escape the doctor's office.

As Del picked up his shirt, Chandler said, "When you give your med-chip to the receptionist, have her make a note that we should contact you as soon as I get the name of a Kyle specialist."

"My what chip?" Del asked.

"Your insurance information." Chandler paused. "You have it, don't you?"

Del stared at him blankly. "I don't know what you mean."

"Then who's paying for this?"

Del had no idea. No one had ever asked him to pay for medical care before. He felt Chandler's tension, though. If he said no one, the doctor would think he was trying to cheat him. So he said, "Mac Tyler. He manages things for me."

"Oh, that's right." Chandler regarded him with a firm gaze. "A word of advice, son. Learn to take care of your own finances. You'll be glad in the long run."

It embarrassed Del to realize he didn't even know if he had any finances here. Mac had talked about an "advance" when he explained Del's contract, but it had all sounded more convoluted than an interstellar treaty.

So learn, Del told himself. He needed to take care of himself if he wanted independence from his family.

Ricki stood in the booth above studio six and pushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. She spoke into the studio comm. "Del, try again. Just the first verse. Give me more energy on the second line."

Down in the studio, Del nodded to her, then held an audio-comm to his left ear so he could hear whatever Greg Tong was telling him. Del had a jane in his other hand, or Janeson selector, named for Rita Janeson, the engineer who designed the prototype. The selector sent data to Ricki and Greg, including an analysis of Del's pitch, the key he was singing in, the harmonics in each note, how much vibrato he used, his timbre, volume, and anything else Ricki wanted to know. The only thing it couldn't tell her was why Mister Churlish Arden had ignored her for two days.

Del's voice soared:

Running through the sphere-tipped reeds
Suns like gold and amber beads
Jumping over blue-winged bees--

"Okay, that's enough," Ricki said. "Del, the word at the end of every line in that verse has the same vowel sound."

He lowered the jane and spoke testily. "I know that."

"No one does it that way," Ricki said. "The first and third line have to rhyme, and the second and fourth. You need to fix it. "Diamond Star" has a similar problem. In that song, you're rhyming the first and second lines, then the third and fourth. I need you to switch the second and third lines of each verse so they fit the proper scheme."

Del stared up at the booth. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not joking." Her bad mood was growing worse. Now he was challenging her in front of the two techs in the studio: the ever-present Cameron who hulked around and carried heavy equipment, and Bonnie, the pretty little one, who was working on holo displays for the vid and studiously ignoring their argument.

"We can't finish the vid until you fix the songs," Ricki said.

Del folded his arms, the audio-comm in one hand and the jane in the other. "It would ruin the songs. Besides, some of my others don't rhyme at all."

"I'm aware of that," Ricki snapped. "You'll have to fix them."

"The hell I do."

Ricki clenched her teeth. That damn undercity punk.

Mac was striding across the studio. Ricki hadn't seen him come in, but given his fast pace, she suspected he had heard at least the end of her exchange with his client.

Mac stopped by Del and looked up at the booth. "Ricki, let's take a few, okay?"

She breathed out slowly, resisting the urge to say, Get your boy to behave his tight little ass or I'm done with him.

"Sure," she said. "Fine."

Del stalked off with Mac, his shoulders stiff. He left without a backward glance at the booth. Ricki felt ready to explode.

Calm down. Why did Del get to her so much? She couldn't let him disrupt her life this way. Closing her eyes, she stood very still, letting the minutes pass as her pulse slowed.

"Ricki?" a man said.

Startled, she spun around. Mac was standing across the booth. That was the problem with having holo curtains for doors; you couldn't hear a person skulk in.

"I don't have time for his tantrums," Ricki said. She gave him a steely gaze, but a straggle of hair fell in her eyes, diluting the effect. Exasperated, she brushed it aside.

Mac came over and leaned against the panel, facing her. "Ricki, listen. You're considered the best in this industry for a reason. You know this business backward and forward. You know what works. And you saw it in Del. Trust your instincts. Yes, his songs are different. You had the savvy to see the power in that. His success will make you the latest trendsetter for the billion dollar babies."

Ricki snorted. "Flattery won't help, Mac. If he plummets, I'll look like an idiot."

"He won't plummet. But even if he did, so what? Prime-Nova took a chance on an undercity artist. It's getting you kudos from the arty set. Critical acclaim. That's what people remember."

She didn't want to hear any of this. "He won't be just another act that fizzled. He's the boy we put with Mind Mix who got the worst reviews of any opener I've ever produced."

"Just at first. He's fine now."

"He's not fine." She waved her hand at him. "He's raw and unprepared and you know it. They like him because he's mesmerizing once he loosens up. He's so magnetic, they're practically flying out of the audience and sticking to him."

Mac's lips twitched upward. "I've never heard it put that way. But yeah, he has it, whatever 'it' is."

"With work, he'll do a good show. He's not there yet."

"You're right, he needs work," Mac said. "But don't constrain his genius."

"Oh, cut the crap." Ricki felt like hitting something. "Every boomallitic blaster this side of the Moon thinks he's the next musical Einstein. I don't have time for it."

"Fine," Mac said. "Don't constrain his commercial potential. Let him do it his way, and he'll give you charisma like you've never seen. Box him in, and you'll package all that magnetism right out of existence."

Ricki scowled at him. "Would you please stop making sense?"

Mac smiled. "Sorry."

"All right. He can keep his damn lyrics." She crossed her arms. "But only if he stops giving me grief about shows, special effects, holos, all that. If he complains one more time about the clothes we pick for him, I'll get a plogging ulcer." Which was saying a lot, given that her health meds were supposed to counteract any acidic juices that went after her stomach lining.

"Plogging?" The laugh lines crinkled around Mac's eyes, but he kept a straight face. Almost. "That's an, um, creative literary construction."

Ha, ha. "No more grief," Ricki said.

"I'll see to it," he assured her.

"You had better," she growled.

* * *

Del paced at the end of the hallway outside the studio. He was ready to bust through the roof. If Ricki insisted he gut his songs, he had to refuse, which would no doubt put him in violation of his endlessly tedious contract. If he pissed off Prime-Nova, no one would work with him. But he couldn't do what she wanted. He would rather give up the virt than corrupt lyrics that meant so much to him, especially just to fit some ridiculously contrived rhyme scheme.

By the time Mac came striding down the hallway, Del was wound as tight as a blaster coil. "What did she say?" he demanded. "Maybe she wants to rename the planets to fit a better rhyme scheme. Hell, why call this Earth? It's more commercial to say 'Sexy world of mine, with seas deep and green, the name doesn't rhyme, so call it Wet Dream.' "

Mac stopped in front of him. "Del, calm down." He looked as if he were trying not to laugh, which just made it worse.

"She's an artistic barbarian," Del said.

"You didn't think so when she offered you a job."

Del was reevaluating that opinion. "What did she say?"

"She'll let you go with your lyrics."

"Hey!" Del gaped at him. "That's good."

Mac didn't seem relieved. In fact, he looked as if he was bracing for another explosion. "She has a condition."

He should have known. "What condition?"

"You have to put together a show that Prime-Nova approves, with costuming, effects, dancing--"

"Dancing!" Del felt as if a mag-rail car had slammed into him. "Whose dancing?"

Mac winced. "Yours."

"I don't know how!" They were going to make him dance? It had been bad enough when he did it without realizing in concert. He couldn't do it on purpose. Gods, what if his family saw him?

"You dance fine," Mac said. "It's probably all that martial arts you studied. And she'll have choreographers work with you."

He wondered if he should die right now or just go home and drown himself. "I cannot dance. Absolutely not."

"Damn it, Del." Mac took a breath and spoke more calmly. "Work with her, okay? I agree with you about the lyrics. It would ruin your songs. But so what if they want you to wear sexy clothes and do a few dance moves? You did last night. And you know what? The world didn't end. You looked good. The girls adored it."

Del wondered how the male inhabitants of an entire planet could be so dense. "Men," he said flatly, "do not dance. Women do. Period. I am not a woman."

"And why, pray tell, do men not dance?" Mac said. "Because Ricki told you to?"

"The hell with Ricki."

"She's your producer. Without her, you have no vid."

"Without me, she has no vid."

"Yeah, no vid of you," Mac said sourly. "Light-bulb time, Del. You're the one who loses if this doesn't work." He shook his head. "Just get a room, will you two?"

Del blinked. "What?"

"Look," Mac said. "I'm not a punching bag for you and Ricki to use because you're both too proud to admit you like each other. You shouldn't have gotten involved with your producer, but you did, and what's boiling with you two won't just go away. If you're angry with her for leaving in the morning, talk to her. Don't fume and seethe and destroy the vid because you two have all this pent-up sexual energy you want to hurl at each other."

Del felt his face burning. "For flaming sake."

"When it comes to work, you put the personal business aside."

"Is that what you came here to tell me?" Del asked crossly. He had thought Mac had a meeting with General McLane this afternoon. Del hadn't expected to see him until the studio session tonight.

Mac breathed in slowly. "No. No, that wasn't it. I stopped by to give you something." He went to the end of the hall and took a bag off a table there. As Del joined him, Mac said, "I thought you might like to hear some of the classics." He pulled out a cube and handed it to Del. "This band helped lay the foundations of the musical movement that grew into what you do now."

Del turned the cube over. A holo of four men glowed in front of one panel. He couldn't read the words, but he knew it was a vid, rather than a virt, because it fit into his hand. Virts were twice that size. It was mostly packaging; the vid itself was just a little chip. He had heard some people even wore them as lenses, to project the images wherever they looked.

Del peered at the musicians. "Who are they?"

"A band called The Doors," Mac said. "From the twentieth century."

"Oh, come on," Del said. "They didn't have rock back then." When Mac raised his eyebrows, Del said, "How could they? The tech didn't exist."

"That's right," Mac said. "No enhancement, no cockpits, no morphers, no mega-multiplexioed anything. Nothing but old-style instruments. And the human voice." He tapped the cube. "They didn't need tech; they had talent." He studied Del. "You remind me of their vocalist, Jim Morrison. The way you sing, that is. Not your temperament."

Del stiffened. "Meaning what? I'm temperamental?"

"Actually, no," Mac said. "You're more even-keeled. Morrison died young, from too much hard living." He was watching Del with an odd look. "In fact, he wasn't much older than you are."

Del could tell Mac expected a reaction to that last comment. Something about his age. Or death, maybe. He spoke awkwardly. "Well, I'm alive now." Before Mac could ask more questions, Del motioned at his bag. "What else do you have?"

Mac offered him more cubes. "These are bands I thought you might like: Avantasia, Metallica, Within Temptation, Dragonland, Troy Wilfong, Epica, Iron Maiden, Morphallica, Nightwish, Apocalyptica."

Del turned the cubes over in his hand, intrigued by the holos of scowling men and ethereal women in gothic outfits. It had an edge that appealed to him, dark and light together. He motioned at an image of four glowering young men wearing leather clothes and metal-studded gauntlets. They looked like a cross between musicians and Skolian Jagernauts, the elite cyber-warriors of Del's people. "Who are they?"

"A band called Titan." Mac indicated one of the men. "That's Nige Walker. He was a forefather of some holo-rock styles you hear today." He gave Del another cube. "This is something different, one of the biggest male singers from the twenty-first century. His work is softer than yours, but you sound like him when you sing slower songs in your baritone range. Zachary wants more of that quality in your ballads."

Del set down the other cubes. The new one showed a handsome man standing in a forest of snow-dusted firs. Although he could see why it would appeal to people, it had a different look from how he thought of himself. He tried to puzzle out the name, then gave up. "Who is it?"

"Josh Groban." Mac glanced from the cube to Del. "You know, your coloring aside, you look a little like him."

"No, I don't!" Del said. "And this guy doesn't sing rock. I can tell from the packaging."

"Just listen to him," Mac said. "He has a great sound."

"But it's not me."

"They aren't asking you to change your style. Just soften the hard edges in some places."

Del regarded him doubtfully. Lose your edge was the preface people used when they were about to tell him he should be less surly and more the way they expected for a prince of Raylicon.

Mac handed him a new cube. With a glint in his eyes, he added, "You don't sing better than this fellow."

Del bristled at the challenge. "What, you think I can't match some old-timer?" He scowled at the cube, which showed a heavy-set man with a powerful appearance. "Are you going to say I look like this one, too?"

"No one looks like Luciano Pavarotti except Pavarotti," Mac said. "He was unique. When you sing tenor, though, you sound like him, at least when you're doing something classical, like those Lyshrioli art songs."

"Was Pavarotti a rock singer?" When Mac started laughing, Del glared. "How am I supposed to know?"

"It says right there on the cube."

Del flushed. "I can't read English."

"Oh!" Mac turned apologetic. "You speak it so well, I forget how little time you've had to learn." Then he said, "Pavarotti is considered one of the greatest male opera singers of the past few centuries."

Del thrust the cube at him. "Why is everyone always shoving opera on me? I like what I do."

"And you should." Mac pushed the cube back at him. "That doesn't mean you can't appreciate his voice."

Del grunted and set it next to the others. "What's that last one in your bag?"

Mac handed him a cube that showed several young men in old-style jeans walking through an urban area. The city resembled Baltimore, but the streets looked as if they came from an earlier era.

"It's a band called Point Valid," Mac said. "They were big in the twenty-first century. One of the first undercity bands, coming out of the alternative rock movement. They laid down some of the seminal philosophies used today."

That sounded more like it. Del shook the cube, making the holos shimmer. He indicated a young man singing. "Who is that?"

"Hayim Ani, their vocalist. He played lead guitar and wrote lyrics. The other two are the guitarist Max Vidaver and the drummer Adam Leve." Mac gave him the bag to hold all his cubes. "They followed a style you don't see much anymore. They would arrange an album, what we call an anthology, around a theme. Sometimes the songs tell a story."

Del looked up. "Like I'm doing with The Crystal Suite."

Mac cleared his throat. "The, uh, Jewels Suite."

Del crumpled the bag in his fist. "Why does Zachary think 'crystal' is a drug reference? If you cut out every word the censors think might have a negative meaning for someone, you won't have any versatility left in the language."

"You noticed," Mac said dryly.

Del smirked and sang under his breath. "Fra-a-a-azy, baby."

"Yeah, well, at least Mind Mix finished their virt." Mac waved Del toward the studio. "You won't unless you go in there and work with Ricki."

"All right. I'll behave." Del stepped to the studio door, which was real, not a curtain of light. He stopped with his palm on its glossy white surface and turned back to Mac. "I'd like to talk later. About my contract. My bills. Everything." He didn't want to say more, but this was too important to let go. "All my life, people have looked after me. Then I was sick, and I needed to be taken care of. I never had to make my own way. I want to learn. About money and all that."

"I'll be glad to." Mac nodded as if Del had said something intelligent instead of admitting he had never matured in ways most people took for granted. "I've been wanting to ask you about some things, like your appointment with Doctor Chandler today."

Del smiled. "He says I'm fine. I wasn't eating right. I'll be better about it."

Mac exhaled with undisguised relief. "Good." He put on a stern look and pointed to the studio. "Now go work!"

Del grinned and pressed a panel, making the door slide open. It wasn't until he was in the studio that he remembered he should tell Mac that Chandler wanted him to see a specialist. It seemed silly to Del. He felt fine, and the tests showed no problems. He was all right. His doctors back home had been telling him the same for nearly five years.

He hadn't told Mac everything about his illness. He didn't want to think about it. He had to be all right--because he couldn't bear the thought of going back to the hell his life had been when he was sick.

IX: The Spiker Crowd

Ricki stood in the booth and massaged her neck. She was tired but pleased. Despite her argument with Del, the session had been productive. Mac had a point; when Del felt inspired, that farm boy was a powerhouse. He had given her good material today, and he had another day before he flew to Boston for his next concert. If tomorrow went as well, she would have a lot to work with while he was gone.

If, if, if. Everything with him was uncertain. He could soar one moment and drive her crazy the next. She didn't know if his wildly fluctuating performance came from lack of experience or if this was the real Del. The former she could work with, but if he was always this inconsistent, she was going to have a migraine.

Ricki straightened up, facing the window--and saw Del's reflection in the glass. He was standing behind her, here in the booth. Well, well. The king of cool had deigned to acknowledge her existence. It irked her that it felt so good to see him. Next she knew, she'd be joining Elba's mesh-mall girls, the Elbows or Stinger-bees or whatever, and swooning over him in a fan club. What a mortifying thought.

Del turned as if to leave, hesitated, then turned back. He looked as jumpy as oil sizzling on a skillet.

She knew when he realized she could see him; his gaze met hers in the glass. He came up behind her then and put his arms around her waist, bending his head to hers. Fortunately, she had already turned off the audio to the booth and dimmed the window. They wouldn't be visible if anyone was still down there.

"It's after midnight," he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. "Aren't you tired?"

"I have work to do." She pressed down her flare of desire. "We won't get the studio tomorrow until after dinner."

He licked her ear. "You're in demand."

Damn straight. She put hands on top of his arms and pulled them away from her body. Or tried to pull them. Huh. Mister Persistence wouldn't let go. He stood with his front against her back, his arms around her, and oh my, did he smell good. Eau de Del. A tingle went through her, half anger and half arousal.

"Let go of me," she said coldly.

Del let her go, but only so he could turn her around. He nudged her to the side and pinned her against the wall by the window.

"Cut it out," Ricki said. Her corn-fed lover was looking at her as if he would rip the husk off her cob and strip her down for a bite. After the way he had ignored her, she didn't intend to show the least bit of interest in him.

Del laughed softly. "What an image." He bent his head and kissed her.

Damn that felt good. Then Ricki remembered herself and pulled her head away. "Keep that pouting mouth to yourself."

He gave her his bedroom smile. "You love me, Ricki. Admit it."

"I most certainly do not love you." Crossing her arms, she made a bulwark between them.

"Come on," Del murmured as he pulled apart her arms. "You're driving me insane."

"You weren't already there?" she asked sweetly.

Del laughed and kissed her again, sliding one arm around her waist and pulling her against him while he caressed her breast.

"Oh!" The startled voice came from across the studio.

Del looked around, his eyes half-closed. Ricki thought she ought to fire whoever had walked in.

Bonnie, the tech girl, was standing just inside the room, her face bright red. "I'm s-sorry," she said. "Cameron said you were up here. We were ready to go."

Blast it. If an award existed for bad timing, this girl could win it. Ricki spoke under her breath. "Del, let go of me."

After a moment, Del released her and stepped away. To Bonnie, he said, "I thought Cameron was downstairs."

"He's just outside," Bonnie said.

"Oh." Del seemed at a loss for a response.

Ricki regarded Del, intrigued. "Everywhere you go, Cameron goes."

"He's my babysitter," Del grumbled. "Mac hired him to make sure I don't get lost or whatever. I've only been on Earth a few weeks, and I can't read or write English."

Interesting. Ricki glanced at Bonnie. "Thanks, hon. Tell Cameron he can go home. I'll make sure Del doesn't get into trouble." At least, no trouble that didn't involve her.

The girl glanced from Ricki to Del as if she thought the greatest danger to Del was in this room. But she had enough sense to keep her thoughts to herself. She said only, "I'll tell him."

As Bonnie disappeared through the holo-curtain, Ricki slipped away from Del. "Come on," she said. "The night's hardly started." When he reached for her arm, she stepped away. "Oh no," she murmured. "You have to work for it."

His gaze smoldered. "Don't push me, Ricki." A wicked smile played around his lips. "Or I'll have to take steps."

"Do tell." Goodness, he was hot tonight. "And where might that little walk lead you?"

"Be careful what you ask." He started toward her. "Or you'll get the answer."

"Is that so?" She flicked off the control panel. "Go get that hot leather jacket of yours. We're going to a party."

Del couldn't absorb all the sensory input. It was too much. They had arrived at a penthouse in some tower he didn't know. The place glittered even in the dim lights. It was full of people in sparkling clothes, at least what little they wore. Lights strobed, but none bright enough to light the corners of the room. It gave the place a sultry, erotic feel.

"Over here," Ricki said, pulling him by the hand.

Del went with her, disoriented. The smell of spiker sticks saturated the air. Unease rippled over him. Spikers weren't one of the drugs his doctors said would make the meds in his body go crazy, but he could never be sure what would happen.

They ended up near a tall table filled with blue and purple glow tubes. A cluster of people had gathered around it, gleaming with the sleek elegance of those who had too much money to spend and too much time to spend it in, but who hadn't yet become jaded beyond caring how they looked.

"It's the principle of it," a woman was saying. Red holo studs glinted in her cobalt hair. "If you let anyone say whatever they want on the meshes, you'll have anarchy."

"Anarchy?" another woman said. "It's called free speech!"

"You have to draw a line between free and libelous," a man said. Laser-tattoos of blue snakes glowed on his cheeks. "It isn't 'free' if people are so intimidated by mesh attacks, they fear to speak."

"But who decides where you draw that line?" the first woman said. "You? Me? The government?"

"Mesh worlds form their own dynamic," another man said. "The group decides what rules they want. If you don't like their rules, join another m-world."

"So if a group decides to suppress the speech of others, that's all right?" the tattooed man demanded. "Hey, I could get people to follow you around the meshes and come down like ten tons of plutonium every time you say something I don't like. I'm exercising my right to free speech--and denying you yours."

A dark-haired man with no tattoos, holos, or jewelry spoke quietly. "Your 'free' speech is decided by whoever has power on the meshes. The more time you spend in the m-universe, the more people know about you. And the more they know, the more they can affect your life."

Del started. The man had a Skolian accent.

Ricki spoke under her breath. "This is boring." She drew him away from the group. "I hate politics. It gives me croup."

Del agreed wholeheartedly. At least, he thought he did. "What's croup?"

"I've no idea what it means," she admitted. "Just that it's vile and unpleasant."

He gave a wry laugh. "Sounds accurate to me." Curious, he said, "Who was that last man who spoke? He sounded Skolian."

"He is. That's Staver Aunchild. He's a buyer for one of the Metropoli entertainment conglomerates. He decides which of our acts he wants to sell to his people." She arched an eyebrow at him. "You ever get big enough, they might look at you. But sweets, you aren't there yet. Not by a long shot."

Well, that was tactful. "Maybe never."

"I didn't say you couldn't. Just that you need time."

Del found it hard to imagine people would ever like his music enough even just to send it offworld, let alone to his own people.

Ricki took him to table with purple light-tubes where several people were sitting on tall chairs. A man with spiky blue hair puffed on a stick that spiraled red smoke into the air. The woman next to him had long black hair, purple eye shadow, and no clothes except jewel-encrusted chains that barely covered her curvaceous hips and large breasts. An older man sat on her other side, sleek and dangerous in an elegant business suit. His wrist-mesh looked as if it cost more than this tower. He had draped his arm over her shoulders, and his predatory gaze was fixed on her breasts, which were trying to burst out of her chains.

"Hey, babe," the man with blue hair said to Ricki.

"Hey." Ricki pushed Del toward a chair and slid into another one. "How's the thorn kicking?"

"Here." Blue-hair offered her the stick. "Like your heels."

Del sat in the chair, wondering how they could speak English and say nothing he understood. Spiker smoke thickened the air, making him dizzy, and the drugged mood of all these glimmering people penetrated his mental shields. So much bare skin. In one corner, a man and woman swayed together, arms wrapped around each other as they unfastened their scanty clothes. Del blushed and looked away. Then he stared at Ricki and wondered if this place had any bedrooms.

"You look hungry," Ricki murmured. "Later, sweets."

"He is sweet, isn't he?" Blue-hair purred.

Del jerked around to stare at the man. "What?"

"Hands off," Ricki told Blue-hair. "No poaching." She took a long drag on the spiker, held it in, and then let glinting red smoke trickle past her red lips. It swirled around her and up to the ceiling. The mega-wealthy executive was ignoring them as he whispered in the ear of the other woman and caressed her breasts.

Ricki handed the spiker to Blue-hair and tilted her head at Del. "He's a farm boy. Del Arden."

Blue-hair leaned closer to Del. "Oh, Ricki dear, where did you find him?"

"Why don't you ask me?" Del said coldly. He didn't like the way the guy stared at Ricki. Or at him. He couldn't focus; he felt drilled without taking a single drag of the spiker.

Ricki wasn't paying attention; she was watching the dancers swaying. "Lot of heft tonight."

"The usual." Blue-hair regarded Del as if he were some exotic delicacy. "And then some."

Del stared at him, then swung around to the person who had dragged him into this crazy place. "Ricki--"

"Shhh." She put her hand on his arm. "You want a drink?"

"No." Del couldn't breathe. "I'm tired. Let's go."

Blue-hair offered him the spiker. "Here, relax, babe. It's top of the line, straight from the Antarian colony."

Babe? Del wanted to punch him, but instead his fingers closed around the spiker. Smoke curled past his face, adding a red cast to the scene. The executive was tugging the chains off the girl, and Del stared at her erect nipples.

"Here." Ricki pushed the spiker to his lips. "Just inhale. It will do the rest."

"No! I don't want--" Del choked as smoke poured into his mouth. He gulped involuntarily and breathed in a lungful. When he coughed, the spiker fell from his fingers.

"Hey!" Blue-hair grabbed the stick. "Tell your boy-toy to be careful with that."

"Don't call me that," Del snarled at him.

Ricki slid off her chair and tugged Del off his. The others at the table also got to their feet. The girl's chains slid down her body and pooled in a pile of jeweled gold on the floor. She stood there, sleek and perfect, wearing nothing but a few strategically placed jewels around her hips, her eyes so dilated, she almost had no irises.

"Come on, babe," Ricki murmured, pulling him by the hand.

Del went where she pulled, too muzzy to think. Blue-hair appeared at his side and put his arm around Del's shoulders.

"Hey!" Del shoved him away. "Drill off."

"He's an arrow," Ricki told Blue-hair. "They don't fly any straighter. You won't get this one."

"Too bad." Blue-hair went ahead of them to join the girl and the executive, who was walking on her other side with his arm around her shoulders. Blue-hair put his arm around her waist and kissed her ear.

"Ricki, let's go," Del said. His words echoed in his ears.

"Here." She set her finger on his lips. "Isn't this better?"

"What?" He looked around, his gaze blurred, trying to figure out what she meant. They were in a different room, one with dimly glowing walls and no other light. Or furniture. The thick carpet came over the toes of his boots. Pillows, glimmering sheets, and leather toys were strewn around. The executive pulled the chain-girl into a nest of cushions, and Blue-hair sat with them, still smoking his spiker.

Ricki nudged Del. "Come on."

"Ricki, no," Del said. "I don't do this." He wasn't even sure what exactly he didn't do, but he had no doubt that whatever it was, this room included a lot of it.

"You'll be fine," she said, her voice silken. She tugged him forward, and he stumbled, then went down on one knee next to the naked girl and the executive.

Blue-hair offered Del the spiker. "Takes the edge off."

Del tried to push away the man's hand, but he missed and fell against Ricki, who had knelt at his other side. They sprawled in a pile on the cushions, landing partially on top of the purple eye-shadow girl. Her breast rubbed Del's cheek, and before he even thought about it, he pulled her nipple into his mouth and suckled. So sweet.

The executive was lying against the girl's other side, but he stopped caressing her long enough to lean over and kiss Ricki. Lifting his head, Del scowled at the exec. He could barely see, and he couldn't think, except that he wanted Ricki out of her clothes, and if that rich asshole touched her again, Del would flatten his face.

By the time Del separated Ricki from her clingy tunic and tights, he wasn't wearing anything, either. She lay under him, the two of them nestled against the others. When she tried to pull him closer, he held her down by the shoulders.

"Patience, love," Del murmured.

She was breathing hard. "Kiss me, you sexy bastard."

A slow smile spread on his face. "You have to wait for it."

She stared up at him with those huge eyes as if she was an innocent, but with his shields weakened by his spiker high, he easily felt her mind. She was so turned on, she was close to an orgasm. Del flipped her onto her stomach and stretched out on top of her, biting her neck. Then he lifted her hips up and thrust into her from behind. She groaned and clenched the pillow under her, her pulse speeding up even more. She was building, higher, higher--and just as she was about to explode, he stopped, holding up her hips.

"No." She could barely get the word out, she was breathing so hard. "Don't do this to me again." She groaned and writhed in his hold. "I'll go crazy."

Del pinned her wrists to the floor while he slowly pulled out of her. "You shouldn't disappear in the morning. You didn't even leave a note. Now you have to pay."

"Stop teasing me."

"You're going to scream for it," he whispered against her ear. He pulled her arms over her head and held them trapped with one hand while he stroked her sides and breasts with his other, keeping her on the edge of an orgasm while she struggled. Then he slowly brought her down from her peak. When she had calmed a little, he entered her again, restarting the cycle, bringing her back up. He was aware of the other three making love, and their desire added to his own, their combined arousal drugging his mind as much as the spiker drugged his body. Ricki moaned under him, her mind a blur of frustrated, urgent hunger.

Del kept her that way, on and on, tormenting her with pleasure, until neither of them could take any more. He let go then, thrusting harder until she screamed with her climax. As ecstasy burst over him, his conscience reeled, but he was too far gone to care.

Del woke up alone. No, not alone; the purple eye-shadow girl was sleeping nearby. She looked lovely as long as he stayed still. When he moved, the room blurred and dimmed, and nausea surged in him. With a groan, he clambered to his feet, desperate to find a bathroom before he embarrassed himself.

The first door he stumbled through let him into an empty bedroom. He staggered across its green carpet into a bathroom. Dropping to his knees, he leaned over the washbasin and vomited his last meal. Then he flushed the basin and sat on his knees, shaking and chilled. He scared himself. Spikers didn't make people throw up.

When Del felt steadier, he went into the misting-stall and let the cleansing mists bathe him. He scoured his teeth, then dried off in the sumptuous hot air blasts. After that, he just stood, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall. He couldn't believe what he had done last night. Gods only knew what Ricki thought of him now. He hoped he had made love only to her. He thought so, but they had all been so entangled, he had lost track of who was touching him.

After a few minutes, when he felt steadier, he went back to the other room in search of his clothes. The girl was awake and sitting up. Del stopped, startled, especially now that he could see her in the morning light spilling through a high window. Black hair fell around her body, and her upward tilted eyes were unlike anything he had seen before. The purple on her eyelids was unsmudged, which made him wonder if it was permanent.

Del smiled. "Hello."

"Hi." She pulled a cushion over herself. "Who are you?"

"Del." He sat next to her. "Do you remember? I was here last night."

Her smile curved. "I would never forget you." She glanced around, looking as groggy as he felt. "Where are the others?"

"They left, I guess." Del was getting the feeling that Ricki's crowd had a hierarchy, and the people on the lowest rung ended up alone in the morning.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You seemed tight last night."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I've just never been to a party like that."

The girl laughed softly. "I know. They get a little wild." She tilted her head, studying his face. "You're cute, you know." She let the cushion drop away from her body. "I don't think we've been formally introduced."

Del flushed. She sat there like a voluptuous goddess, alive and warm, and he wasn't even aware he had leaned forward until she drew him into a kiss. Then his brain caught up with his hormones, and he pulled away.

"I shouldn't," he said. "I came here with Ricki."

The girl pouted. "She left without you."

A familiar anger stabbed at him, but with less bite this morning. Maybe he was growing used to her vanishing act. Hell, he deserved it after the way he had treated her last night. Or maybe he was just too spiked-over to think straight.

"You're sweet and beautiful," he murmured. "But it wouldn't be right."

She blinked. "Why not?"

Wasn't it obvious? "I can't sleep with one woman at night and someone else the next morning."

"Of course you can." She stretched languorously, letting him look. "You can do whatever you want."

Del couldn't help but stare. So lovely. "If I was going to with anyone," he said softly, "it would be you."

She traced her finger down his cheek. "If you change your mind . . ."

Del kissed her. "You deserve better than me."

Then he stood up. With reluctance, he put on his clothes and headed out.

He just wished he knew how the blazes he would get home when he had no idea where he had spent the night.

Mac was setting up a meeting for one of his clients when his office AI appeared above his desk, the holo of a young woman with light brown hair.

"You have a visitor," she said. "Del Arden."

Finally! He couldn't believe Del had sent Cameron home last night and then disappeared. Mac hadn't stopped worrying. Now he was angry.

"Send him in," Mac said.

As soon as his wayward charge walked in, Mac wondered if Del had slept at all last night. He had dark rings under his eyes, and his shaggy mane of hair was tousled as if he had just woken up, though it was past noon.

Del slouched in a chair across the desk. "Hi."

"You look like shit," Mac said.

Del stared at a point of the desk somewhere to the right of Mac. "Long night."

Mac spoke sharply. "Look at me."

Del raised his startled gaze. "What?"

"Cameron is your bodyguard. We told your family we would protect you. You send him away again, I'll tan your royal hide."

Del's face tightened. "Drill it, Mac. If I want to go without a bodyguard, I'll do it."

"Fine. Great. Just great. You have fun last night?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Del was looking at the random point on the desk again.

"You sound as convincing as a mesh dealer trying to sell broken consoles," Mac said.

Del just shook his head. So Mac waited.

After a moment, Del looked up. "Maybe I got a little carried away."

A headache throbbed in Mac's temples. "I'm afraid to ask."

"With Ricki. I . . ." Del reddened. "Uh."

"You stuttered at her?" Mac couldn't help but smile. Del looked like a naughty boy. "That sounds drastic."

Del glared at him. But it provoked him into describing his night. When he finished, he said, "The concierge at the hotel got me a fly-taxi, and it took me here."

Mac's headache was getting worse. "You were certainly busy."

"Well, you know." Del pulled at his ear.

"How did you pay your taxi fare?"

The youth shifted in his seat. "Like with the, um, doctor's bill."

"We need to talk about that." Mac had set up an account for Del and was paying his expenses, but if the prince wasn't careful, he would run through his advance from Prime-Nova long before he saw any more income.

"I think Ricki's upset at me," Del said.

"Maybe I'm dense," Mac said, "but the last time I checked, 'Kiss me, you sexy bastard' was hardly the cry of a distressed damsel." He was angrier at her than at Del. "She's the one who should feel guilty. You kept saying you wanted to leave the party. So what do they do? Smash you on spikers and push you into group sex. Real charming."

Del's lips quirked upward. "It was tough. But I survived."

"Oh, quit smirking," Mac said. "Why did you throw up? I've heard of people passing out from spikers, but never vomiting. This after your 'friends' stranded you with some girl you don't know from slam in the wall. What if you'd had a worse reaction?" He let out an explosive breath. "It scares the blazes out of me."

"I can't go through life being afraid." Del pushed up to his feet and strode away, then spun around. "I'd rather not live than be trapped in a glass palace, looking at the world but never touching it. It's my decision to make." Then Del added, "Trying new experiences is good for a person." He even said it with a straight face. Almost. Then he grinned.

Mac wondered what he was going to do with this misbehaved prince. "Just be careful, all right. Taking control of your life and taking unnecessary risks are two different things. You do this playboy thing too hard, you could burn yourself out."

"Playboy?" Del's grin vanished like spit in the wind. "I am not her 'boy-toy.' "

It took Mac a moment to figure out what he meant. Then he smiled. "I never noticed that. The words do sound the same. But they mean different things." He thought for a moment. "Playboy is like jizzora in Skolian. Except playboy refers to a man rather than a woman."

Del bristled. "You're saying I'm a rich man who doesn't work and devotes himself to a life of pleasure without commitments or responsibilities?" After a moment, he said, "Okay, maybe that described me once. But not anymore. The past few years, I've mostly been doing the father thing and farming."

The father thing. Mac sometimes forgot how much that had meant to Del. "Do you miss your nephews?"

"Always." Del spoke awkwardly. "They're better off without me."

"Why do you say that?"

Del shrugged, his gaze sliding around the room. "You have a lot of expensive stuff here."

Mac glanced at the synth-crystal shelves full of gold, silver, or crystal vid cubes. "When one of my clients has a success, sometimes they give me a keepsake to celebrate."

"Oh."

"Del."

The prince looked at him. "Yes?"

"The playboy thing--is that why they didn't betroth you to the Majda Matriarch? Devon, I mean."

Del stiffened. "It's none of your damn business."

Mac waited.

After a moment, Del said, "Yeah, she asked for my younger brother."

It suddenly seemed very quiet to Mac. My younger brother. As far as any of them knew, Del was by far the youngest. "Was it Shannon? Or Verne?"

Del gave him a strange look. "Who is Verne?"

"Your brother with the doctorate in agriculture."

Del laughed. "His name has an 'l,' not an 'n.' But yeah, she asked for Vyrl. He was the perfect match. He never messed around with anyone. Except you know what? He had been in love with this girl Lily practically since they were born. When they told him about the betrothal, he and Lily ran off and got married. Here they all thought I was the messed-up one, but it was Vyrl who screwed up their plans."

Mac stared at him. It couldn't be. He and Fitz couldn't be right. He spoke in a slow voice. "Vyrl is a great-grandfather."

Del's smile faded as he realized what he had said. For a moment he just looked at Mac. Then he walked to a window in the far wall. He stood staring out at the sky, silhouetted against the blue expanse with its streamers of clouds.

"If Havyrl Valdoria is your younger brother," Mac said, "you had to have been born at least seventy years ago."

Del spoke dully. "Seventy-one."

"What happened?"

"I told you." He turned around. "I was in a cryogenic womb."

"For forty-five years?"

"Yes," he said flatly. "For forty-five years."

"The technology to do that didn't exist that long ago."

"That's right." He spoke in clipped sentences, as if he were another person separate from what he was describing. "It was a race. Could they advance the tech fast enough before my current womb decayed? They couldn't revive me until science advanced enough to keep me alive, but if they kept me in too long, the cryo would fail." He took a shaky breath. "I balanced on that edge for nearly half a century."

"Good Lord," Mac said. "It's a miracle you survived."

Del lifted his hands, then dropped them. "Do you know what it's like to wake up and not remember how to talk? To walk? To count or laugh or say your name? To discover everyone you know has lived decades while no time went by for you?" His voice cracked. "I had to relearn almost everything. But I could still sing. It's what kept me going."

"It's incredible." Mac felt like a bastard for bringing it up. "I'm sorry. I know it was private."

"It's all right," Del said, surprisingly gentle. "If I didn't want you to tell General McLane, I wouldn't tell you. We both know how this works. You've been straight with me from the start." He came back over, looking at Mac now instead of acting as if some random point on the desk fascinated him. "You were going to talk to me about my finances, right?" He gave a rueful smile. "So I can stop being a dissipated playboy."

Mac let out a breath, then waved Del back to his chair. "Have a seat. Let's get started."

X: Red and Blue

Prime-Nova released "Sapphire Clouds" as Del's first single. It debuted on the North American chart for holo-rock at number three hundred and fifty-seven. The second week, it jumped to two hundred and ninety-four. It climbed more slowly after that.

Jud waxed philosophical about the matter. "Okay, it's not the biggest smash ever to hit the mesh. But right now African-Andromeda fusion music is bigger than rock. Besides, you're getting a lot of play around here. And the undercity critics love you."

They were sprawled in beanbag chairs in Jud's Baltimore apartment, where Del had been living since General McLane okayed his move off the base. Del regarded Jud dourly. His roommate knew perfectly well that acts with the backing of a super conglomerate like Prime-Nova were supposed to do better. Hell, twenty-five years ago, Mind Mix's first release had debuted in the top ten.

"I've learned a lot of new English words lately," Del told him. "Like flop. Plummet. Mesh-meat."

"Oh, stop." Jud laughed as he practiced a morph-guitar that flexed and bent under his touch. "Your song isn't mesh-meat. It's been on the charts for four weeks, and you've almost reached the top two hundred."

"Well, gosh," Del said. "That's a real rocket taking off." He fell back in his beanbag. Except for a console against one wall, the fat cushions were the only furniture. They were wicked smart beanbags, though. They played music and bathed him in holographic ripples of color according to how they interpreted his mood. They even communicated with the wall panels, coordinating their displays. Right now, the music was barely audible and the lights muted, a pale wash of blue that matched his bad mood.

" 'Sapphire Clouds' is still climbing," Jud said, playing a rill of high notes on his guitar. "I checked this morning. It's one hundred and six in D.C. And it's fifty-four on the holo-rock singles chart for northern Baltimore."

"Well, hey," Del said. "I'll bet it could hit number one on the chart for undercity singles written by offworld farm boys who live in Northern Baltimore and have hinges in their hands." He held up his hand and folded it along the hinge, wiggling his fingers at Jud.

"That is so weird," Jud said.

Del lowered his arm. "I'm surprised no one notices."

"Sure they do." Jud shrugged. "It doesn't show when you're holding a mike, though."

"Mic."

"That's what I said." Jud coaxed a rumble from the morphing strings on his guitar, which had gone fat and shiny, deepening the pitch.

"But you had the wrong spelling, I bet." Del felt immensely pleased with himself for learning the difference. It was one of the few words he could spell. "It's m-i-c. From microphone. That was an early form of a michael."

Jud smiled. "You're certainly up on your trivia."

A chime came from the console across the room.

"It's for you," Jud said.

"How do you know that?" Del asked.

"Because if it were for me," Jud said, "I would have to go over there. Which requires energy. So obviously it's not for me."

Del didn't intend to get up, either. "You don't have to go over there."

"I do if I don't want you listening," Jud grumbled.

"Put an audio-comm in your ear."

"I'd have to find it." Jud waved at the room, which was cluttered with morph equipment and Madagascar cartons from their dinner last night. "I can't remember where I put it."

Del eyed the mess. "Maybe we should clean up." He had never realized before how much people tidied up after him. Even at the base, robo-sweeps cleaned his room. "At least we should get some of those robotic maid-mice."

Jud scowled at him. "Maybe if you weren't always fooling around in some virt, you'd remember to pick up your stuff."

"I'm not always in a virt." Del enjoyed building the fantasy worlds, but he didn't spend more than an hour a day. Well, maybe two. "Besides, half this stuff is morph equipment. Who could that belong to, I wonder?"

Jud laughed. "Okay, I give."

The console chimed again.

"One of us should answer it," Jud decided.

Del spoke to the air. "Claude, who's comming us?"

His EI from the base, which the military had allowed him to keep, answered. "It's Harvey Orner. Your publicist."

"Oh." Harv was his publicist. "Okay. Put him on." Looking around at the disaster area he and Jud called their living room, Del added, "But just audio. No visual."

Harvey's voice floated in the air. "Del, baby! Howz it go?"

Del winced. "Hello, Harv."

"We're all set," Harvey enthused. "You're going to do that interview on the Atlantic City-Time Hour."

"That's the fourth time you've told me that," Del said. "Why would it come through this time when it hasn't all the others?"

"They had a cancellation," Harv said. "The toe contortionist who was going to close the show dropped a brick on his foot."

"Well, gosh," Del said. "They go for the second-best act compared to that? I'm so flattered."

"Del, sweetheart, listen to me. Today, you're the closing act on Atlantic. Tomorrow you'll be the star."

Right. At the rate Del was going, he would need a second job to make his half of the rent. He had no intention of dipping into his Ruby accounts to support himself. He had thought Prime-Nova was paying him a lot, but he had yet to see any money except for his advance. Mac kept using the word "unrecouped," which as near as Del could tell meant he had to pay back Prime-Nova for every expense under the sun, including his vid, virt, touring, promotion, and for all he knew, the price of baking soda in Iceland. Even being the last ditch fill-in for a human toe-pretzel act would earn him some pay on a major show like the Atlantic.

"Sure, I'll do it," Del said. "When do they want me?"

"Uh, that's the thing." Harv cleared his throat. "You have forty-five minutes to get to their D.C. studio."

"What!" Del jumped up to his feet. "I can't do that."

"I'm sending a fly-taxi," Harv said. "Be ready in five minutes. Wear something sexy. And Del baby, don't forget to pay the pilot. I don't want to get stuck with another of your bills."

"Fine, yeah." Del was striding into his bedroom. Claude transferred Harv to the console in there.

As Del threw around clothes on the bed, Harv added, "My niece was wondering if you'd sign her holo-vid cube."

"Sure." Del held up a pair of torn jeans, then tossed them aside and took his leather pants. As he pulled them on, the cloth smoothed out its creases.

Claude suddenly said, "Your pants just sent me a message."

Del blinked. "They what?"

"Your pants contacted me. They say it is difficult to maintain their best appearance when you leave them crumpled up. They suggest you hang them up after you wear them."

"Great," Del muttered. "My clothes are talking to me." He pulled on a wine-colored pullover that Anne had picked out to match his hair. It glimmered with a gold overlay she claimed "accented his eyelashes." Del had no idea what that meant, but it evoked positive moods from people, so he wore it.

"Del, are you there?" Harv said.

"Yeah, I'm here." He sat on the bed and pulled on his boots. "You said something about your niece."

"She wants you to sign her holo-cube."

"Sign it?"

"Your autograph. You know."

"Oh." The "signing" thing again. People wanted him to write his name for them, and he didn't know why. As a keepsake? The signature of a Ruby prince was no small matter. Besides, he didn't know how to write his name in English. He could barely even do it in Iotic. But he couldn't admit that. So he said, "Sure."

Then he jumped up and headed out to his interview.

Ricki wasn't pleased.

Zachary Marksman sat in his big leather chair and surveyed the holos above the big desk in his Prime-Nova office. Ricki stood next to him, her arms crossed, frowning as she watched. The display told her nothing she didn't already know, but seeing the statistics floating in the air as blazing red graphs brought the point home with inescapable force.

"This vid is the third plummet for Mort's Metronomes," Zachary said. "The hum in the m-universe is that they're boring."

Ricki shrugged. " 'Boring' just means no one thinks they're new anymore."

Zachary brought up a holo of the group. Four skinny young men with buzzed-off hair yelled and danced while Mort screeched his song. "They don't hit with the audience." He shook his head. "Let them off the option for their next cube. Paying them the termination fee will cost us less than another plummet."

Ricki stiffened, but she didn't argue. In her younger days, she would have fought for any band she signed. She was the one who had talked Zachary into taking a chance on the Metronomes. The group had struck her as innovative without being controversial. Mort's voice was hopeless, but he had good presence in the studio. It hadn't translated well into the vid, though, and his virt sales stank. She had learned to choose her battles more wisely, saving the fight for the ones she had a chance of salvaging.

Zachary pulled in a new set of graphs, this time with no trace of red, just pure, shining blue. "Mind Mix," was all he said. They needed no other introduction. " 'Frazy Baby' debuted at number two on the Stellar Hits charts last week. It'll go number one this week."

No surprise, there. "That last tour of theirs shouted rocket all the way," Ricki said.

Zachary scowled at her. "Yeah, if Tackman doesn't fuck it up with his neuro-amps. He either cleans up or he's out."

"I've spoken to his manager." Argued was a better word, but Ricki could deal with him. "But Zach, Mind Mix is at the top. This would be bad timing to dilute their act." As stomach-turning as Tackman and Tristan could be in their smug satisfaction, they brought in millions for Prime-Nova. So she put up with their conceited asses.

"Just keep an eye on him," Zachary said.

"I will."

"What about this one?" He brought up a display that was part red and part blue. "This Del Arden fellow. He's got weird stats."

Ricki's shoulders tensed up under her tunic. She tried to separate her personal life from work, but it was growing more and more difficult with Del. He had been avoiding her since that party. It wasn't like before, when he smoldered with anger every time she came near. In the four weeks since, they had seen each other a few times, but they spent most of their time in bed. Not that she objected. He had turned into a gentle lover, as if he felt guilty about their night at the party. It was sweet, but she missed his growling, defiant alter ego.

Enough, Ricki told herself. This was time for business. She knew what the graphs showed. His vid had entered the charts much lower than they hoped, but it had since moved up more than was normal for acts with such a weak debut.

"People don't know what to make of him," Ricki said. "He's different. But he's good enough that they listen anyway. And he's selling well in cities he played with the Mind Mix tour."

Zachary brought up a holo of Del in concert. "It's the oddest thing. His show was too plain, even after he jazzed it up. But it's impossible to stop watching him."

"It's because he's unpolished," Ricki decided. Del was doing that thing where he crouched down while the drums played. Then Jud exploded into chords and Del jumped high in the air. He came down singing, practically shouting into the mike. "Who knows what the boogle he's doing? He looks so good doing it, you don't care."

"Boogle?" Zachary asked, laughing. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Ricki glowered at him. "My point, Your Royal Tech-Mechness, is that you know it's unrehearsed. Unprepared. You can't stop watching to see what he'll do next. He could fall on his sexy butt up there and he'd look like dynamite."

"His material is strange. And he hasn't taken the word 'crystal' out of that damn diamond song."

She regarded him with exasperation. "A diamond is a crystal."

Zachary frowned at her. "You know what I mean."

She waited, but he didn't insist Del change the word. Which was a relief. Ricki didn't want to get into another argument with her temperamental lover about artistic purity. Who would have thought she would end up in bed with an undercity renegade? The worst of it was, he was starting to make sense.

"He does sing well," Zachary allowed.

"The Ell-bees love him," Ricki said.

Zachary considered the graphs. "Those holos of him that Elba Malls licensed have decent sales. We should capitalize on that. Get him onto more of their pre-teen channels in the mesh mall."

"It's a good idea. But look at this." She indicated a blue spike in one curve. "That's an academic demographic. College professors are buying his stuff."

"Not a lot of them."

"Yeah, but enough to register."

Zachary scrolled through more graphs. "Heh. Look at that. The boomallitics like him. And you're right, good hum from the intellectual set. Strange mix with the teeny-bops. His sales are so-so, but his cube isn't plummeting." He glanced at her. "You want to produce his second one?"

That was a relief. Or maybe not. If Zachary had shunted Del off onto a junior producer, it would have been far kinder to Ricki's blood pressure. But she didn't want some amateur messing with Del.

"Sure," she said. "We'll see where we can take it."

Michael Laux, the host of the Atlantic City-Time Hour, had an upswept mane of black hair and blue eyes so vivid, Del could see the color from across the stage. Except the stage wasn't a stage. The crew called it a "surge studio." It looked a lot like the room where he recorded his vid, with glowing blue walls and equipment everywhere. When Del watched the City-Time Hour on the mesh, it always had an audience. It looked nothing like this.

"So, Del, come in, come over," Laux said heartily, extending his hand.

Del shook his hand and smiled, feeling like an idiot. They were standing in a blue room acting as if they were in front of hundreds of people.

"It's great to be here," Del said, because Harv had coached him to talk that way. He wondered if he sounded as fake to everyone else as he did to himself.

Laux beamed at him. "You've made quite a splash out there."

Splash? As in water? Del eased down his shields and picked up enough to realize Laux meant it as a compliment. He liked what he caught from Laux; the fellow enjoyed his job and wanted to encourage new talent. Talent, as in, he wasn't just looking for commercial appeal. How refreshing.

"I do my best," Del said, hoping that was safe, because he had no idea what they were talking about.

Laux lifted his hand, inviting Del to sit on the skeleton of a chair. It bore no resemblance to the furniture on the show, but he and Luax sat facing each other in the same arrangement as those chairs. Probably the techs projected some sort of holo onto the skeleton.

After they were settled, Laux said, "From what I understand, your best is a knockout."

Knockout? Still confused, Del smiled and said, "Well, gee, thanks." For some reason, Harv loved it when he said "gee." It inspired the publicist to make comments about Del eating corn, which made no sense to Del, but seemed to please Harv immensely.

"So Del, we've only a few minutes left," Laux said with a smile. His teeth were so white, they could have lit up the studio. Del could see why Laux was such a popular host, though, and it had nothing to do with his perfect teeth or handsome face. The fellow's good nature was genuine.

"You've stirred some controversy with that exercise in your concert," Laux said. "How would you like to do it here, with verification you aren't using enhancement?"

"It would be my pleasure," Del said, because Harv had told him to. Then he growled what he really wanted to say. "I've never used a Roberts Enhancer, and I'll challenge anyone who claims I did."

"Great!" Laux seemed much happier with Del's scowl than his polite words. Turning to the nonexistent audience, he said, "Del will sing tonight with no aids. You can download our guarantee of that from the Tru-Tech Verifier site, with its Platinum-certified seal." To Del, he said, "It's all yours!"

Del slid off his chair and stepped to a mark on the floor a tech had shown him earlier. Fortunately, he had practiced today, and his voice felt warm despite his having no warning about the show. When a tech gave him the cue, Del started the exercise, doing "bay-ay-ay-by," up and up, until he had covered six octaves and a bit more. Then he stopped and let out a breath, relieved it had come out all right.

Laux strode over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now that's a set of pipes!" He turned his megawatt smile on the non-audience. "Was that impressive or not? Tell us what you think at the City-Time Virt Grotto. Come on by, hang with your friends, and let's talk. Remember, Citizens, this is City-Time, Top Time, and--" Laux pointed straight at the holo-cam. "Your time."

Lights flared, and Del had no doubt that when he saw the "live" show later, it would have an applauding audience. He didn't mind; he just appreciated the chance to prove Pizwick wrong.

As the studio lighting softened, Laux lowered his hand and spoke in a quieter voice. "That really was impressive. I've heard it's even your own voice, with no medical augmentation."

"Pretty much," Del said. "Earlier generations of my family were selected for genes that improved our vocal range." He almost said my ancestors instead of earlier generations, but he stopped himself in time. It would give away his Skolian heritage, because only Skolians who descended by the Ruby Empire could have distant ancestors who knew genetic engineering.

"We certainly benefited from the result." Laux shook hands with Del. "Good luck, son. I listened to the vid your publicist sent over, and I must say, I enjoyed it."

Del smiled, pleasantly surprised. "Thanks."

After Del left the studio, he walked out into a hall of the building and ran smack into a man striding past the door. The man jolted to a stop and regarded Del. He spoke with a cultured accent. "Excuse me, but are you Jack Mayer?"

"Uh, no." Del knew that accent. This man came from the Skolian world Metropoli.

"My apologies." The man looked distracted and harried. "I'm late for our meeting. I've only met him once, last week. You looked familiar."

Sweat beaded on Del's temples. As far as he knew, the meshes had no likeness of him as a Skolian; until just recently, he had always kept his image private. It had been easy given that he lived on a world no one could visit. Surely this man couldn't recognize him as a Ruby prince.

"I'm a singer," Del said. Then, because hope burned eternal, he said, "Maybe you saw my vid."

"Perhaps." The man nodded absently as he looked around. He obviously hadn't recognized Del from any vid.

"Oh!" Del said. "I remember. That party a few weeks ago. You're Staver Aunchild, aren't you? The Skolian exec."

Staver brought his attention back to Del, looking pleased by his recognition. "Party? Ah, yes, the one Centauri Music put on. Quite a scene, eh?" He regarded Del with new interest. "Are you one of their acts?"

"Not Centauri. Prime-Nova. I work with Ricki Varento."

"Varento! Of course." Staver took a box out of his jacket and removed a cube. "Here's my contact info." He handed Del the cube. "Have one of your people send me your vid. I buy for Metropoli Interstellar. It's a Skolian entertainment conglomerate."

"Thanks," Del said, flattered. He hadn't realized Ricki's name could open doors so easily. He doubted Staver would want to license his music when he saw the lackluster sales of the Jewels Suite, but it was worth a try.

"I'll do that," Del said.

"Good." Staver nodded, the Skolian equivalent of good-bye. "Nice meeting you." He was looking up the hallway behind Del.

Glancing around, Del saw a man walking toward them. Del turned to tell Staver good-bye, but the exec was already going to meet the other fellow. So Del went on his way, thinking. He knew the chances of Staver licensing his work were minimal. But wouldn't that be a scream if his music sold to the Skolians? His family would have collective heart failure seeing one of their own immortalized as--of all the unseemly occupations--a rock star.

XI: Virtland

Del couldn't resist looking for his vid in a music kiosk. Why people called the mega-store a "kiosk," he had no clue. It went on forever, aisle after aisle of racks, displays, and booths where customers could try out virts. Laser lights flashed and morphed everywhere, from the vaulted ceiling high overhead to the glowing purple floor. Music was playing, some orchestrated version of a stellar-fusion song. Del loved the place. He had no clue how to find anything, though.

The store actually did have kiosks that sold music in unusual forms. He gaped at the slick ads for virts that cost thousands of renormalized dollars and would connect you to entire mesh worlds populated by thousands, even millions of people. On the other end of the reality spectrum, he found "sheet music," which musicians supposedly used to read songs from weird little marks on bars. He couldn't fathom why anyone would do something so convoluted when they could have a ticker play, record, and edit whatever they needed. Del wasn't the only one on his world who couldn't read; the people on Lyshriol had no written language. Music passed from artist to artist through the voice, a malleable, ever-changing process that Del felt certain would be ruined if it were codified by marks on a sheet.

He sleuthed out the holo-rock section. Cubes filled its racks, hundreds, thousands. He stood surrounded by a wealth of music, thoroughly confused. Mind Mix, golden-haired Jenny Summerland, and the simmering Conquistadors were everywhere. He recognized them only from the big holos above the racks, because he couldn't read a single flipping cube. He could have asked an AI for help, but he didn't want to look stupid. Why he cared how he "looked" to an AI, he had no idea, but it didn't change his gut reaction.

Del didn't see his vid anywhere. Surely the store had it. This morning, in its fifth week, "Sapphire Clouds" was number one hundred seventy-six on the North American holo-rock chart, which sort of almost put it within range of being a minor hit. Prime-Nova probably wouldn't be happy, though, unless it made the Continental Hundred, the chart of the most popular music of any kind in North America. So far, Del's work had been scarcer on that chart than a Prime-Nova exec without an attitude.

"That is him," a girl said in a low voice. "Look at his eyelashes. They glint, like they have nano-sized laser studs."

Del's face heated. He only knew one person with eyelashes that glinted. Turning around, he saw two girls a few paces away. When they realized he had noticed them, they reddened and looked as if they didn't know whether to back away or come closer.

"Hi," Del said.

"Hi," one answered. She was pretty, with blond hair and big eyes, purple eyes, a color so vivid it practically vibrated. The other girl was curved and sexy, somehow audacious just standing there. Her black hair had purple streaks that glowed, and a flashing purple laser-stud pierced her skin where her shoulder met her neck. She matched the store.

"Are you Del Arden?" the girl with yellow hair asked shyly.

Hah! They did recognize him. He sauntered over. "That's me. Who are you beautiful young ladies?"

The laser-light girl looked him over with approval. "I'm Kendra." She indicated her shy friend. "This is Talia."

"Kendra and Talia." Del smiled. "Those are gorgeous names. I've never heard anything like them."

They both laughed, Talia self-conscious and Kendra as if she thought Del was teasing.

"Are you here to sign cubes?" Talia asked. "I didn't see an ad for it."

"No, I just came to look around." Del motioned at the rack of cubes. Holos popped and whizzed above them, shooting up to the ceiling far above their heads. "It's all so new to me."

Kendra gaped as if he had announced his arrival from another dimension. "You've never been in a kiosk before?"

"I grew up on a farm. We never went anywhere like this."

"That's so sweet," Talia said.

Del wasn't sure farming qualified as "sweet," at least not when he was sweaty and exhausted from hacking bagger-bubble plants all day. But she looked so charming saying it, he would have farmed anything for her.

"Will you sign your cube?" Talia asked.

Ah, hell. He stopped feeling cocky. He would die rather than admit to these lovely girls that he didn't know how to sign his name. So he said, "Sure."

"That's great!" Kendra beamed at him. "We'll get your virt, too." Mischief flashed in her gaze. "You could share it with us."

That sounded interesting. Del had never done a session with real people. He was learning to program his Jewels Suite virt, but it couldn't do much. In a session with real people, though, they could interact however they wanted.

"I could give you a tour," Del said, and both girls laughed. He felt good. Even a few weeks ago, he wouldn't have understood that reference to his virtual self, who offered tours of the virt like Rex had done in the Mind Mix virt. Now the joke rolled off his tongue. They even thought he was funny.

"I'd like that," Kendra said in her sultry voice. She turned to the closest rack and flicked a tiger holo scampering across the rail. A red light flashed in a laser-stud on her index finger.

"The Jewels Suite, by Del Arden," she said.

The rack jolted into motion. Line after line of cubes rolled past, the boxes snapping up, flashing in the light, then snicking down to let new cubes roll up. The whir of motion blurred, then stopped as suddenly as it began.

Kendra tapped two boxes, her fingertip glowing. She handed one to Talia. "Here's yours." She took another and offered it to Del with a smile.

Sweat broke out on Del's palms. But before he could respond, Talia frowned at Kendra, somehow making the expression pretty.

"We have to pay first," Talia told her friend.

"I did. For us both. With this." Kendra wiggled her finger with the laser-stud at Talia. Then she tapped her virt box, and it snapped open. Holos of Del glowed above its inner surfaces. He reddened, still finding it hard to believe that he threw his head back that way when he sang, with his hips tilted and his eyes half open. He tended to avoid images of himself singing because they made him self-conscious when he performed.

"Could you sign here?" Talia touched a silver triangle on the inside of the box.

He took the cube from her. "I don't have an, uh--" He wasn't even sure how someone signed a virt.

"You can use mine." She rummaged in the purse slung over her shoulder and pulled out a blue stylus with flashing purple lights zinging around the stem. "Here."

"Thanks." Del took the stylus, determined not to look stupid. He touched its end the way he had seen people do, and was rewarded by a point of light flaring on its tip. Hah! When he pressed the tip against the silver triangle, it left a purple mark.

Okay. He had made it this far. He knew his name started with "D" in English, and that a D was half a circle. He drew a semi-circle on the silver, followed by a squiggle. It looked nothing like his Skolian signature, which had taken him years to learn. Mac said he should never use his real signature, though, to avoid forgers. With a smile, he handed the box back to Talia. He didn't know why she would want his squiggle defacing her property, but she glowed as if he had given her something of value.

"Ooh." Kendra pouted. "She got to go first." She handed him her cube and lowered her lashes. "Saved the best for last."

"Oh, stop," Talia said, laughing. "He saved the brassiest for last."

Brassiest. Del supposed it was slang, but people really could be brassy, designing their appearance however they wanted. Kendra looked softer and warmer than brass. Much softer.

Del snapped open her virt, looked at the silver triangle--and froze. He didn't remember how he had drawn his signature for Talia. He couldn't make the one for Kendra identical. It was impossible to be that exact. He couldn't do it.

Del took a breath. Cut it out, he told himself. Just make the damn squiggle.

He signed her box with a fake signature, just like every signature he wrote was fake, because they all looked different, and he didn't care how many times anyone said it didn't matter. He knew. Every time he signed his name, he fractured himself into smaller pieces, creating more bits of Del, none of which were him.

A plain of reeds rippled from where Del stood with Talia and Kendra all the way to the distant blue-green mountains. The peaks bore no resemblance to the Backbone Mountains of his home, but the plain looked a little better. Although the bubbles that tipped the reeds didn't have the iridescent sheen of the real ones on Lyshriol, they were close.

The colors were mixed up, though. The clouds were white instead of blue, and the sky was blue instead of lavender. No one at Prime-Nova knew anything about Lyshriol, and Del hadn't told them, so they based the virt on Earth. How could anyone know Lyshriol? The first people to land there in modern times had been the resort planners from Texas, and they had christened the planet Skyfall. They had showed up after the Texan government fined them for "creative" business practices on Earth, and they snuck offworld, searching for less protected real estate to exploit. As soon as they stumbled across idyllic Lyshriol, they went about setting up hotels and gambling houses.

Eventually the Skolians kicked them off the planet. The name Skyfall stuck, though. The pollen that saturated the biosphere turned the water blue, so snowfall covered the ground in a blue carpet. The planners had thought it looked as if the sky had fallen. Now everyone in three empires knew about the world Skyfall--because it was home to the Ruby Dynasty.

Del found the whole business hilarious. In his language, the word Lyshriol meant, "the clouds have come to the ground." Every time he told someone here that Lyshriol was his home, he was saying he came from Skyfall. And no one had a clue. The top brass in the military knew, of course, but they weren't telling anyone. Lyshrioli natives rarely traveled offworld, and the Ruby Dynasty kept their home world confidential.

"This is pretty," Talia said, gazing across the plain. Reeds swayed around her knees and thighs.

Kendra took a step and sent a cloud of bubbles into the air. "Hey!" she said, laughing. "Who thought this all up?"

"I did," Del said, pleased that they liked his home.

A man was walking toward them across the plain. Del focused on him, and the figure was suddenly in front of them--a man with wine-red curls, violet eyes, and eyelashes that glinted.

"Hello." The man smiled. "Would you like a tour?"

"Hey!" Del said. "You're me."

His virtual self looked him over. "There does seem to be a resemblance. I don't have an accent, though."

Del scowled at him. "I know. Zachary nixed it." It was one of the few times Del had summoned the courage to disagree with the tech-mech king. It hadn't done any good. Del had eventually gritted his teeth and acquiesced, but he dug in his heels when Zachary suggested he hire someone to help him "lose the accent" in real life. Ricki had actually sided with Del, telling Zachary his accent had "sex appeal."

However, Ricki hadn't supported Del when Zachary had the hinge edited out of Del's hand in his vids and virts. The way Zachary talked, Del would have thought the hinge was some weird mutation. It bothered him a lot, but it would have bothered him even more if they had dropped production of his vid.

"I prefer the real Del," Kendra told the fake Del. "He's going to give us the tour."

"Would you like me to leave?" the unaccented Del asked.

"Sorry," Kendra said. "But, yeah, scram."

"Enjoy yourselves," Psuedo-Del said. Then he vanished.

"That was definitely weird," Talia said.

Laughing, Del said, "It's not every day I meet myself."

Kendra gave him a sultry grin. "I like the way you talk better. Especially that chime in your voice."

Del grinned and spun around with his arms extended. "I used to run and run across these plains. Come on!" Then he took off.

"Wait up!" Kendra called. She and Talia were suddenly next to him with that instantaneous jump virts allowed. As they ran, the wind streamed through their hair and "Sapphire Clouds" played:

Running through the sphere-tipped reeds
Suns like gold and amber beads
Jumping over blue-winged bees
Don't catch me, please
Running, running, running

Del stopped abruptly, on purpose, and Kendra and Talia piled into him. They collapsed into the reeds, laughing in a tangle of limbs. He filled his arms with Kendra's voluptuous body. Rolling over in the reeds, he kissed her soundly. She pulled him closer, her arms around his waist and Talia lay along their side, sliding her palm over his hips.

Del lifted his head and murmured. "I'm a lucky man today."

Talia hesitated. "I'm surprised you don't, well, you know."

He leaned over and kissed her, still holding Kendra in his arms. "Don't what, beautiful?"

"Have a girlfriend," Talia said. "The hum in the m-verse is that a Prime-Nova top gun owns you."

Del's smile vanished. No one owned him. He wasn't property. Ricki didn't want him, anyway; she wanted some creation Prime-Nova had concocted and called "Del Arden." They didn't have a real relationship. She kept him around for enjoyment, as if he were some sex toy.

Thinking of Ricki, however, prodded the part of Del's brain that his hormones tended to turn off. He regarded Kendra, and she looked up at him, her eyes half-closed, her soft lips inviting.

"We don't have to stay in the virt," she murmured. "My bedroom is just as comfortable. And it's real."

"I would love to," Del said. More than she knew. "But, um--"

Her eyes opened all the way. "What's wrong?"

"Uh--how old are you two?" Del asked.

Kendra caught her lower lip with her teeth. When she didn't answer, Del looked at Talia.

"I'm eighteen," Talia said. "Kendra is nineteen."

Well, damn. No matter how overprotective Del might consider their culture, he had to obey its laws. He took a breath, then lifted himself off Kendra and sat cross-legged next to her. "I wish--" His voice trailed off.

Kendra sat up, smoothing her tousled hair, and glared at Talia. "You didn't have to tell him."

"He could get in trouble," Talia said.

"You're lovely," Del said. "Both of you. I can't believe two such incredible girls want me." This holo-rock thing had perks he hadn't expected, but he needed to get things straight with Ricki before he played. He might be innocent by the standards of the music industry, but he wasn't stupid. He didn't want to be on the same planet as his illustrious producer if he pissed her off.

"I just can't," he finished. "I'm really sorry."

Talia touched his cheek. "You're sweet."

Del reddened. If they did the corn-fed farm boy bit, he was going to dig under the reeds and hide. He wondered what people would think if they knew his farm grew big leathery bubbles. He had never even tasted corn.

Del stood up and offered one hand each to Kendra and Talia. "Come on. Let's go real, and I'll take you to dinner." He didn't really have the money, but he liked their company, and he didn't just want to leave things on this abrupt note.

Kendra jumped up and took his arm. "Come on, handsome." She waited while Talia took the other. "Let's go."

Talia dimpled at him. "Dinner with a famous singer. All our friends will wish it was them."

Del had his doubts about that, given how few of their friends were buying his vid, but what the hell. It would be fun.

He felt an odd pang at ending the session; it was becoming more and more difficult to leave the fantasy worlds he created.

In its seventh week on the holo-rock charts, "Sapphire Clouds" hit one hundred and twenty-two; in week nine, it was one hundred and three; in week ten it crept up to one hundred and one. That same week, "Diamond Star" entered the holo-rock chart at number three hundred and three.

Zachary stood in his office and squinted at the stats floating in the air. Even his clothes had holoscreens woven into them, mimicking the charts in miniature. The graphs constantly changed as they took new data from the mesh.

"It's not possible," he told Ricki. "We never released 'Diamond Star' as a single."

"What, you aren't happy it made the chart?" she asked. Honestly, Zachary could drive her crazy sometimes. She was standing on the other side of his glossy black desk, watching him through the graphs.

"What 'made the chart'?" He waved his hand at the holos. "It debuted at the extraordinary rank of three hundred and-gasp-three."

"Yeah, but look at 'Sapphire Clouds.' " Ricki motioned at one of the graphs. "It might crack the top one hundred next week."

"Or it might drop into oblivion. It's hardly moving."

"It's the turtle," she decided.

He peered at her through the translucent graphs. "Ricki, sweetheart, could you just for once try to make sense?"

She wondered what bee he had in his britches. "You're in a mood."

"Tackman got fined again for neuro-amps." He squinted at Del's graphs. "At least Mind Mix's chart-chess makes sense. The band comes out like a fission-fueled rocket and stays at the top."

Ricki studied the graphs floating between her and Zachary. "Do you remember that ancient fable about the race between the turtle and the rabbit? The rabbit jumped out of the starting gate and got so far ahead, it figured the turtle could never catch up. So the flipping silly rabbit took a nap. Meanwhile the turtle plodded on and won the race."

Zachary cocked an eyebrow at her. "I doubt our high-strung Mister Arden would appreciate the comparison."

Ricki wished Zachary would get over Del challenging him on that business about the accent. No, Del didn't grovel to the tech-mech king. So what? It was good for Zachary. Besides, Zachary cared more about profits than Del's moods. "If Del breaks into the top hundred, that's a great sign."

"His songs move too slowly. A bullet that boy is not."

"People need time to get used to him." Ricki thought for a moment. "We should send him on tour again. It's been a few months since his last one."

Zachary gave an incredulous laugh. "After that fiasco? You have to be kidding."

Ricki put her fists on her hips. "It wasn't a fiasco. Yeah, he plummeted at first. But he picked himself up. And he's had four months to practice since then. With some planning, he could do a good tour. We could start with smaller venues. See what happens."

Zachary glanced at the graph for "Sapphire Clouds." "He does have more staying power than a lot of new acts."

"Just wait until people see him. Look at the Baltimore chart." Ricki flicked a few holicons in the air, and the graph changed to one with a steeper blue line. "See? 'Sapphire Clouds' is number eight." When Zachary raised an eyebrow, she said, "Yeah, it's a little chart, but it shows what he can do. People there know him. Del up close and personal is strong stuff." She could attest to that far too well. He drove her crazy, never able to decide if he loved or hated her. He would say they had to talk, but if she came to his apartment, he would seduce her into the bedroom instead.

"Oh, all right," Zachary said. "Put him on tour." He smiled slightly. "That eff-you attitude of his can be entertaining when it's in his songs instead of directed at me."

Ricki smirked at him. "He says what you wish you could tell all those hightowners who piss you off."

"Someone has to deal with the investors," he grumbled. "I'm just glad I don't have to do it as often as some of the other VPs."

"Have you ever heard Del's song 'Carnelians'?"

"I don't think so. It's not on his vid, is it?"

She shook her head. "It's beautiful, at least the version I heard. But he left it off. Mac thought it was too political."

Zachary's tone sharpened. "Prime-Nova isn't a damn soapbox. Put in politics and it kills sales."

Ricki shrugged. "I can't make heads or flipping pails of the song."

"Heads or what?" Zachary asked, laughing. "Pails?"

"Yeah, that's right." Really, why were people always making fun of the way she talked? Her singers were the lyricists, not her. " 'Carnelians' is definitely the eff-you genre. But who is he flipping off? 'I'll never kneel beneath your hightown stare.' What does that mean?"

"Maybe he doesn't like rich people. Probably why Mac didn't want it on the vid. It might antagonize some wealthy supporter."

"I suppose." She had asked Del, but he never gave her a real answer. "He gets tight-lipped about that one." She smiled, thinking of far more entertaining things he did with those lips.

Zachary was watching her. "Don't mess with the act."

Her good mood cooled. "My personal life is my business."

"Not if it interferes with your judgment." He waved his hand through the graph, and it disappeared, replaced by a holo of Del standing frozen on a stage in Philadelphia. "Like convincing me to let him stay on the Mind Mix tour."

"I was right, wasn't I?" Ricki flicked through holos until one appeared of Del tossing his mike high in the air. He grabbed it with a flourish as it came down and wailed into it without the slightest pause in his song, while people in the audience screamed and clapped. "See? And that bit he did on the Atlantic City-Time Hour caused quite a hum." It didn't surprise her that the buzz had been more about Del's looks than his vocal cords. Women loved to watch him, and his snarling defiance appealed to the men. Del was the only one who had no clue about his smoldering sexuality. Which suited Ricki just fine.

"People like him despite the flaws in his shows," she said. "They want to hear him. Not razzly-dazzly whatever. Because he sings the way people used to, when all you had was your voice and a few primitive instruments."

"I suppose." Zachary didn't look convinced.

"We should release "Diamond Star" as a single." As long as she was asking for the universe, she might as well go all the way.

"Why?" He sounded genuinely curious. "It's too experimental. I'm surprised it showed up on the charts at all."

"Parts of it are strange," Ricki agreed. "But the lyrics are easier to understand. 'Diamond Star' is his most upbeat song. Nothing to upset the censors. Suppose we use the first two verses and choruses without all those weird firecracker pops. Then the morpher solos. Then jump to Del singing the end. It would cut it down to less than four minutes."

"Maybe." Zachary brought up a menu in place of the graphs, and "Diamond Star" played in a ripple of notes. The music started like an acoustic guitar, then morphed into a wave of noise that didn't match a single classical instrument. Although it all came out of Randall's stringer, it sounded like several electro-optic guitars layered together.

Del's voice caressed the song:

Angel, be my diamond star
Before my darkness goes too far
Splinter through my endless night
Lightening my darkling sight

He wailed the chorus, going up and down on the word diamond:

You're, you're, you're, you're
A diamond, a diamond, a diamond star

Then into the second verse:

Brighter than the crystal caves
Sunlight glancing on the waves
Swirling dance upon my heart
Longing while we're held apart

"See, right there," Ricki said as Del sang the chorus. "Just have his voice, Jud's cello morpher, and Anne's drums. After the chorus, play Randall's guitar solo and cut to the end."

Zachary nodded, his gaze unfocused as he listened. He flicked more holos, and the music jumped to the bridge at the end:

Take it slow, a daring chance
Swaying in a timeless dance
Shimmering radiance above
Softening this lost man's love

Then back to the chorus, Del singing "diamond star" over and over, his voice soaring with erotic purity.

"Huh," Zachary said. "I see what you mean. It might work." He regarded her. "Cut out the words crystal caves, though."

Ricki could just imagine Del's reaction to that idea. "I think we should leave it."

"Why? What the bloody hell is a crystal cave anyway? It makes no sense. The song won't suffer if he takes it out. He can say, I don't know, 'brighter than blistering days' or something."

Ricki almost gagged. And he thought she had a problem with words. "That's real poetic, Zach."

"Yeah, well, it isn't a drug reference."

"Neither is crystal caves." Before Zachary could object, she added, "We'll promote the song as marriage-proposal pop. Convince people they want to get engaged to this music. Give a diamond to the star in your life. Then you need the crystal caves. Because of course, that symbolizes the diamond ring."

"A cave?" Zachary gave a snort of laughter. "That's even wonkier than your argument for why Jenny Summerland shouldn't take the phrase 'let me come' out of her latest."

Ricki threw up her hands. "Zach, honestly, don't be such a flipping Puritan. She was saying 'let me come home.' Not 'let me have an orgasm.' "

"Yeah, sure." He flicked off the holo of Del. "Fine. He can keep crystal caves. Just make sure the wedding thing is clear in the ads." With a scowl, he added, "And don't tell Mister Angst Arden we're chopping it up."

Ricki shook her head. "Can't do that, Zach. His contract requires we get his okay on any substantial alterations."

"What substantial? It's the same song. Just better."

"I have to tell him. To protect ourselves."

He crossed his arms. "I don't want to hear any more of our rock Rafael's complaints."

"Hey, that's good. The Rafael of rock." Ideas jumped in Ricki's mind. "The surly angel. I can work with that."

"It's been done."

"Not for years. People don't even remember what was hot two minutes ago." She gave him her most reassuring look. "And don't worry, I'll deal with Del."

"Yeah, well, I hope so."

So did Ricki. She wasn't anywhere near as sure about Del as she claimed. He had an odd attitude toward the song, as if he wanted to hide it from everyone. Those light, pleasing lyrics meant something different to him, she just didn't know what.

Someone shook Del's world. Literally. He lay sprawled on his back in a meadow with his arms thrown wide. Bubbles floated above him. They were supposed to pop and release glitter, which acted like pollen, but it didn't happen. He needed to learn how to reprogram this virt. He wished he could connect his mind straight into it, so it could take what he wanted from his brain.

The land vibrated again. Puzzled, he lifted his head. Nothing looked wrong. Bagger-bubble plants grew all around him, stalks tall and thick, sacs blue or red. He got up and walked through the field, enjoying the breezes. Home. He missed it. He would go for a visit. It wasn't going to be easy, though. His family would ask how he spent his time. He could hear them. Holo-rock? What is that? He wasn't even successful. No, damn it, he wasn't a failure. "Sapphire Clouds" was almost in the top hundred. Almost. Not that they'd care. They didn't know holo-rock charts from geology-rock charts.

The crops around him suddenly wavered and shook. Del glared at the fields. "What the blazes is wrong?"

The fake Del appeared. "Someone wants your attention."

"So why not send me a message?" Del asked. "Through you."

"You locked out communications," his sim-self told him.

"Oh." Del had forgotten about that. "End sim."

Blackness descended, and he slowly reoriented. He wasn't standing, he was lying in a recliner. Lifting off his helmet, he squinted in the brightness.

"Thank God!" Jud was leaning over him, his hands gripped on Del's shoulders. "What the hell was wrong with you?"

Del blinked up at him. "I was just in the virt."

"For two hours. We were going to rehearse, remember?"

"Rehearse," Del mumbled. "That's right." Sitting up slowly, he set the helmet on the console. Then he rubbed his eyes.

"Ricki left a message," Jud said. "We're going on tour again."

"We are?" Del pulled himself out of the recliner. He felt sluggish. Tired. He wanted to go back into the virt.

"Come on." Jud tugged at his arm. "You need to get dressed so we can meet Randall and Anne."

"Oh. Yeah." Del walked toward his room. Then he stopped and looked back. "Jud?"

His roommate smiled, his face framed by dreadlocks that brushed his shoulders, with silver beads in them today. "You look like a little kid when you're half awake."

Little kid. If he only knew. "Do you know how to get a bliss-node?"

Jud's smile vanished. "Damn it, keep away from that garbage."

"Why?"

"You could get hurt. You can't take chances like that."

"I can take care of myself." Del clenched up inside. Jud sounded just like his family, suffocating him. He strode to his bedroom and tripped over a pile of clothes. Frustrated, he scooped them up and tossed them onto his bed.

"Hey." Jud came over to him. "I didn't mean anything." He watched Del as if he were a combustible substance about to ignite.

Del raked his hand through his hair. His arm was shaking. Lowering it, he stared at his trembling hand. What was wrong with him?

"You need to eat," Jud said.

Food. As soon as the thought registered, hunger pangs stabbed at Del. "I can't believe I forgot to eat." He rubbed his eyes. "Okay, so maybe I'm spending a little too much time in the suit."

"A 'little,' yeah." Jud's grin came back. "Come on. Let's rehearse. We're going back on the road!"

Del knew he should be glad Prime-Nova was giving him another chance. But he didn't feel up to traveling. It also meant he might not see Ricki for weeks at a time, and he had never settled matters with her. He felt guilty about his ambivalence, especially given the way she was supporting him with Zachary. But sleeping with her was easier than the proverbial "relationship talk."

Maybe Mac was right about the playboy thing. In his youth, Del had been drowning in his own insecurities, stupidly intent on proving his manhood. The strains of "Emeralds" drifted through his mind:

They waited in whispering reeds
Green within, predators without
But my brother intervened
He answered my crying shout

His brother. Althor. So many decades had passed since that night Althor had protected him. When Del had been fourteen and Althor fifteen, his big brother had saved him from being beaten senseless and gods only knew what else. Del clenched his fist and kicked a soccer ball by his door. It rolled across his bedroom into the opposite wall. Althor was dead, a casualty of the war, tortured by the Traders and then executed.

Jud was still watching him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Del couldn't confide in him. He couldn't confide in anyone. How could he have friends when his life was a lie? He spoke softly. "I want to go home."

"You should, then," Jud said. "Take a break after the tour, before your next vid."

"Yeah. After the tour." He couldn't leave yet. He just had to make it through a few more months.

Just a little more time.

XII: Diamond Rise

In its eleventh week on the North American charts, "Sapphire Clouds" dropped to one hundred and twenty-four, never breaking into the coveted top one hundred. The original version of "Diamond Star" moved up ten places to number two hundred and ninety-three.

"I don't understand," Del told Ricki. "Why change the song? 'Diamond Star' hit the charts without even an official release."

"You don't want debuts at three hundred." Ricki lay with him in her sumptuous floater bed, with fluffy white quilts bunched up around them. Even in the dim light, the white furniture in her room shimmered. So did the white carpets and white walls. It was a gorgeous room for a gorgeous woman who was, at the moment, pissed off. Del had no idea why, and she thought she was hiding it, but he knew. She wanted to slap him across that glossy room of hers.

"If you cut up the song," Del said, "it takes out the most interesting parts."

"We don't want interesting." Ricki turned with her back to him. "We want it to sell."

He stretched out behind her, his front to her back, and put his arm around her waist. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Her body remained stiff. She had responded when they made love, but now she was like a board. Even when she stayed in bed with him, she seemed to leave.

"You're mad at me," Del said.

"No, I'm not." She rolled onto her back. "Let's watch an m-cast."

"Here?" On Lyshriol, he kept tech out of his bedroom. Sure, they had it for comfort, warmth, all that. But it was discreet. Then he had come here and discovered what he was missing. But he didn't want it invading their private time. He could think of better things to do in bed with Ricki than watch an m-cast.

She was already touching a panel on the nightstand, though. A wall across the room glowed, and a holo appeared in front of it, the image of a woman with metallic blue streaks in her blond hair.

" . . . see my latest holo-movie," she purred. "Tomorrow night, right here, on the Midwest Channel."

"That ought to be your channel," Ricki said sourly. "You could commune with all the other small-town boys."

Del was getting angry. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong or what?"

She ignored him. "Jacques, give me the Northern Baltimore chat channel."

"Certainly," a sensual male voice answered.

"Who the hell is Jacques?" Del said. He knew perfectly well it was her EI, but he could do without Jacques in bed with them.

"What?" she asked, all innocence. "You don't like my house EI? What a pity. He's such a good EI."

"For flaming sake, Ricki."

"Oh, look at that," she said sweetly. The holo across the room re-formed into a cozy cafe with two young women seated at a table. Two very familiar women.

Talia and Kendra.

Oh, shit.

"I was strolling through the m-verse to see if you were getting play," Ricki said. "And golly, farm boy, look what I found. Seems you've been playing a lot."

Kendra's voice rose into the air. " . . . one of Baltimore's hottest new singers. But don't let that rock star reputation turn you away. Del Arden is a sweetheart."

"He took us to dinner," Talia said, her dimples in full force. "What a night!"

Kendra laughed sensuously. "Talia, you're the innocent one. That's why you just watched."

Talia's cheeks reddened. "Watched what?"

"Nothing much," Kendra admitted. "But his kiss is dynamite." She looked out of the holo with satisfaction. "What a dream. Del Arden. Pick up his latest cube. It's called The Jewels Suite."

"A dinner date with two of them," Ricki murmured. "With you for dessert. How charming."

Del's face was flaming. "They asked me to sign my vid. So I took them out to dinner."

"For asking you to scribble your name on a little box of glim-flex? Gosh, you're nice." She snapped her fingers and the holo vanished. "What else, Mister Sexpot Arden?" Her voice was no less dangerous for its silken tone.

"I didn't do anything," Del said. "Just one kiss. Then I stopped. Because I thought of you." Which was true. No wonder Mac had told him not to get involved with his producer. This could turn into a nightmare. "We left the virt after--"

"You were in a virt?" Ricki sat up so fast, the covers flew off her body. "You were fooling around with those two bee-brains in a sim? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Del sat up, boiling. "I guess I'm stupid, Ricki. I can't imagine why you would bother with me. I should just leave."

"No! Don't you understand? The vid's recorded!" She looked as if she wanted to shake him. "Anything you did with those little groupies is in their cubes. You know what virtisos are?"

"I don't care." He yanked the covers off and started to get out of the bed.

Ricki pulled him back. "They could do whatever they want with those files."

He stared at her, jolted out of his anger. It hadn't occurred to him they might fool with his holos. They had seemed so nice. They were nice. Nothing he picked up from their minds had set off his mental alarms.

"What did you mean, virtiso?" he said.

"They're fans who follow around celebrities." She let go of his arm. "They try to get to know the star so they can build more realistic sims. They like real recordings because it's easier to crack the security on those. The images from a session you do with other people don't have as many protections as images we put in when we make the virt. If those girls figure out how to unlock their session with you, they could edit your images. Like take out your clothes. You want naked holos of you all over the mesh? Del Arden, the prince of prurience."

Del's face flamed. The Skolian Assembly would have collective heart failure if nude images of him showed up in public. He would have heart failure. He would die of embarrassment.

"Kendra and Talia wouldn't do that," he said.

"My God, you're naive," Ricki said.

"I really didn't do anything with them. Except one kiss."

"And next time?" she asked coldly.

"Who says there will be a next time?"

"You're a rock singer." She sounded like she wanted to hit him for something he hadn't even done. "There'll be a next time."

"Why are you so sure?" Del touched her lips. "I don't know what you want. A boyfriend? To own me? To mold me into something that isn't real? I don't think I can be what you want."

She sat, waiting. Then she said, "And?"

"And what?"

"The words that follow a statement like that are usually, 'Maybe we should take a break from each other.' "

A flush spread through him. "Is that what you want?"

It was a moment before she answered. "I don't think so." She had a stillness about her, but even with her instinctive mental shields raised, her apprehension leaked to him. He couldn't tell what it meant. He thought she wanted to say no, it isn't what I want and couldn't bring herself to speak the words, but maybe that was just his ego misleading him into believing she wanted him.

"And do you?" she asked.

His perception shifted. Did he want to end it? Knowing his family would disapprove of her didn't put him off. If anything, it made him want her more. Hell, he would like her even if they liked her. She understood him in ways no one else ever had. But he had no idea how to deal with her.

"I don't want to stop seeing you," he said. "But I can't handle things this way. You disappear in the morning. You try to control my life. I'm not your toy. I hate it when you treat me that way."

"I can only be myself," she said. "You may want things from me I can't give."

Disconcerted, Del said, "That's supposed to be my line."

She blinked. "It is?"

"I've used it too many times." It wasn't something he was proud about.

She actually smiled. "You're kidding."

"Why would I be kidding?" he asked, miffed.

"You seem . . . I don't know. More innocent than that. But maybe not. I don't know. You seem experienced and innocent at the same time." She made a frustrated noise. "Oh boggers, I can't figure it out."

Del couldn't help but laugh. "Boggers? What does that mean?"

"Stop trying to distract me," she growled. "What 'too many times' have you used that line?"

Del didn't want to talk about it, but he doubted she would show him any mercy until he did. So he said, "My girlfriends on Lyshriol were like me. Naive, I suppose. People marry young there. In a place like that, sure, I seemed experienced. But compared to your life, I'm not." He stopped, flushing. "If that makes sense."

"It explains a lot." She considered him with an unsettling scrutiny. "Why were you different from other people there?"

"It's nothing."

"It's never nothing. Didn't you want to be like your friends?"

Del clenched his fist in the quilt. "What friends? The ones who betrayed me?"

Her voice quieted. "You sound furious."

Del lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. Apparently it picked up his agitation, either from his body language or messages Ricki's bed sent it, because it changed from dim grey to soothing ripples of green and blue light, as if he were underwater.

"You know that song 'Emeralds'?" he said.

She was sitting next to him, watching his face. "The one about jealousy."

"You know it's about that?"

" 'Green as the bitter nail / They drove into my name / I won't try to fail / Just to satisfy their game.' " Ricki grimaced. "We've all known people like that."

"I was fourteen. It was a group of boys older than me. They pretended to be my friends." It was the curse of being an empath; self-delusion was impossible. They had hated him for his title, his family, his singing, and most of all because of Chaniece. "They wanted my twin sister. But I wouldn't even let them talk to her." He had known exactly what they wanted to do to her. Their craving had been so intense, he had caught the images from their minds. No way in seven hells would he have let them near her.

"What happened?" Ricki asked.

"One night I went swimming at the lake. They snuck up there and caught me when I came out of the water."

"Did they hurt you?"

"They beat the crap out of me." The unwelcome memories jolted him. "I thought they were going to kill me. I screamed for help, and one of my brothers heard. He knew mai-quinjo, a form of hand-to-hand combat. He got them off me, even with one of him and five of them. If he hadn't--" He was shaking from the furious memories. "If I wouldn't let them at my sister, I would do, right? What great revenge. Fuck the helpless kid senseless." Del took a deep breath. "But my brother stopped them."

She splayed her hand on his chest. "No wonder you get so angry when you sing that song."

"You could tell?" He had thought he hid his emotions better.

"Only because I know you." She lifted her hand in a gesture that mirrored a move in mai-quinjo. "You know those dance steps you do, like this? Some look like martial arts moves."

"They are." In his youth, Del had shown only a desultory interest in the combat training he and his brothers learned, but after that night at the lake, he had vowed to become a master.

"And the girls?"

Del really didn't want to talk about this while he was in bed with his girlfriend. "Well, you know."

She wasn't letting him off that easily. "No, I don't."

Oh, what the hell. "The first time I seduced a girl, a few weeks later, I just wanted to know I could, that the whole thing at the lake hadn't changed me or that they hadn't seen something about me I didn't know myself. And with the girl . . . well, you know." He smiled. "It was fun. So I kept doing it. Proving my manhood to myself."

Instead of getting angry, she got a glint in her eyes. "You should have seduced every one of those bastards' sisters."

Gods, what a thought. It would have started a war between him and the other youths that probably wouldn't have ended until someone died. "Althor, my brother, told me to keep away from them. So I did. And he told my 'friends' he would kill them if they ever bothered me again." Del let out a strained breath. "What scared me the most was that he meant it."

"Because they attacked someone he loved."

"Not just that." Del had never talked about this before, not even with the therapist his parents had sent him to when he was fifteen, when they were trying to understand why their son had turned so unrepentantly promiscuous. "Althor was everyone's idol. The great hero. Smart, strong, powerful, handsome. He grew up into a man everyone admired. An honor student at the military academy. A decorated fighter pilot." Bitterly he said, "Until the war killed him."

"I'm sorry," Ricki said softly.

"You don't know what it was like for him." The words had been pent up in Del, but now he released the dam. "Imagine being considered the epitome of everything masculine in a sexually rigid culture. And he didn't like women."

Ricki squinted at him. "You mean he didn't like them as people? Or that he was gay."

"I don't know what gay means. He liked women fine as people, he just didn't want them as lovers. Except on Lyshriol, a man can't love a man." Del remembered as if it had all just happened, though it was nearly sixty years ago. "He had to live in a culture where people practically worshipped him, but they would turn on him with hatred if they knew the truth. When he saw how my 'friends' planned to humiliate me, he lost it." He put his arm over his eyes. "He told me once that one of the cruelest things a person could do to someone was to use their sexuality against them, that it turned love into a field of cruelty."

To Del's surprise, Ricki said, "He's right."

"He was right about a lot of things." His voice cracked. "But he died and I lived, so I guess the universe has no justice."

"Don't be so hard on yourself." She spoke in a gentle voice he had never heard from her before. "You both deserved to live. The injustice is that he died, not that you survived him."

Del lowered his arm so he could see her. He had never guessed this side of her existed. "I wish I'd known you back then."

She was quieter now, her anger either gone or submerged. "I always imagined that a boy who grew up in a rural culture would live a more sheltered life."

He hadn't meant to tell her so much. "You can't shelter people from human nature."

"I guess not. But it inspired your art."

He gave an incredulous laugh. "What art? I make noise. I jump up and down and shout." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Such talent, and I waste it on trash." He pushed up on his elbows. "What I do is junk. Popular fodder."

"What a load of bullshit," Ricki said. "Who told you that?"

"Admit it! We can spin fantasies all we want, but when you come down to it, my work is garbage."

She scowled at him. "No, when you come down to it, you incredibly stupid man, your work is brilliant."

"Oh come on, Ricki." He mimicked his own singing voice. " 'Running through the sphere-tipped reeds, suns like gold and amber beads.' Yeah, real deep."

"You're singing about the loss of childhood innocence. To make it work, first you have to evoke childhood."

"Compare what I do to the classics. Listen to those words."

"They're all the same!" She launched into a surprisingly good imitation of an operatic soprano. " 'Save me, Lord, have mercy on me, redeemest my sinning ass.' " Dropping back into her own voice, she said, "It only sounds impressive because it's all in Latin."

"The Latin Requiems are beyond compare," Del told her. "What more spiritual way to ask for God's redemption than with that exquisite music?" Ever since Mac had given him the works by Pavarotti, Del had been devouring Earth's music. It was so far beyond anything he had ever done, he didn't see why he bothered with his own work.

"We all create in our own way," Ricki answered. "The Fred Pizwicks of this world will say you're nothing if you don't do it the way he likes or if you commit the even greater sin of doing it better than anyone else. You can't listen to them. Del, you don't have to be redeemed for being different. It isn't wrong."

"My lyrics are trite." Del wanted to stop, to keep it all to himself, but it was pouring out past the holes in the fortress around his feelings Ricki had breached. "My music is stupid."

She took his hand and pressed it as if that were enough to stop his endlessly cycling thoughts. "I don't know who's feeding you this crap, but you should stop listening to them." Softly she said, "Even if their voices are only in your heart."

Del stared at her, wondering what aliens had taken away Ricki and left this compassionate person in her place. "You know," he said. "When you cut out the hard-nosed producer stuff, you can be a really decent person."

She raised an eyebrow. "Meaning I'm not the rest of the time?"

Ai! He should have kept his mouth shut. "Ricki, no. I didn't mean it that way. Only that you're a complicated woman with far more facets than I realized when I met you. A woman worth taking the time to know."

She smiled wryly. "You're very good with those lines."

"It's not a line. I mean it." He took a breath. "I want to keep seeing you, and I hope you feel that way about me."

She spoke wryly. "You know, I can see why you had so much success with all those girls. It isn't just because you know what to say. A lot of men can do that. But you mean it. Women can tell. We know when a guy bullshits us. You don't. That's why we like you."

"You're slipping up," Del said with a grin. "You admitted you liked me."

She scowled at him. "You confuse me."

Dryly he said, "Then we have something in common."

Ricki laughed, then sighed as if in defeat and lay next to him. "Ah, Del. What am I going to do with you?"

He pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her hair while he stroked her breasts. "This."

She held him around his waist. "You have completely too much energy, Mister Arden. We should go to sleep. You have a rehearsal early tomorrow."

Del had revealed so much more of himself tonight than he had ever intended, he decided to take one last plunge. "Promise me something. In the morning, don't leave before I wake up. Get up with me. We can go into the studio together."

She hesitated. "I guess I could do that."

He had an odd sense, as if she had given him far more than he knew. He feared he was getting in deeper with her than he could handle. But maybe he thought too much. What happened, happened. This new life of his might end tomorrow, but as long as it went on, he wouldn't freeze himself with the fear of losing either his heart or his life.

* * *

Del's first stop on his new tour was at the Blues Town Cafe in a Pennsylvania college town. Eighty people jammed the place. Cameron stood by the door with his feet planted wide and his arms crossed, wearing his supposedly mock urban-camouflage fatigues, which were probably the real thing. How Cameron managed to look so trendy while being so blatantly military, Del had no idea.

Jud turned down his morpher, Randall turned down his stringer, and Anne took it easy on her drums so she didn't break everyone's eardrums. They didn't even have a stage. Del just stood at the front of the room and sang. He felt good. Ricki had stayed with him that night he spent with her, and his rehearsals were going well. Tonight his voice filled the place, and he let go, stepping from side to side, having fun.

The audience loved it. Their energy poured into him, and he gave it back. They wouldn't let him stop. The show went an hour longer than scheduled, until finally the cafe owner said she had to close because of zoning ordinances. In Del's heightened empathic state, he could tell she was pleased. She had made more money tonight than in the past two months combined.

Afterward, they piled into the hover-van and headed to West Virginia for the next show. It took Del a while to come down from the high of the concert. He wished he had a virt to submerge into, to relax his mental knots, but he didn't feel anywhere near as wound-up tonight as after the bigger shows.

Around four in the morning, Del drifted to sleep, slouched in one of the long seats toward the front of the van. After a while, someone shook him.

Del opened his eyes blearily. "What?"

"They want you to listen," Cameron said. He was in the next seat over.

"Huh?" Del slowly pulled himself up straight. Jud, Bonnie, Randall, and Anne were in the circular seat at the back of the van, all bent over Jud's mesh screen.

"Del! Listen to this." Jud turned up the mesh audio, and a voice rose into the air. Del's voice:

Shimmering radiance above,
Softening this lost man's love.

"Hey," Del said. "That's 'Diamond Star.' " He rubbed his eyes. By the time he came fully awake, the song had finished. It was the shortened version Prime-Nova had released from his vid.

"Why are you picking up a Baltimore feed here?" Del asked.

Anne raised her head and met his gaze, her eyes warm. "It wasn't Baltimore. That was continental."

"Continental?" Del's groggy mind couldn't absorb her meaning.

"The North American holo-rock chart," Bonnie said.

"This is the caption with the song," Jud said. He flicked a holo, and an eight-inch-tall image of Del in a white shirt and leather pants formed above the mesh. A man said, "That was 'Diamond Star' by Del Arden, from his anthology, The Jewels Suite. Register your votes at the North American Central Node."

Bonnie gave Del one of her soft, shy smiles. "We all voted. We gave you the highest rating. A ten. 'So hot, it sizzles.' "

Del laughed, delighted. "Can I vote? Like ten thousand times?"

Jud winked at him. "Only once. It recognizes your m-signature. But yeah, sure, you can vote for yourself."

"It won't make much difference," Anne said. "The NorthAm Central Node gets millions of votes. They're the top counter for holo-rock stats in North America."

It was finally sinking into Del what they were telling him. " 'Sapphire Clouds' never got on a national counter."

Randall leaned forward. "They post the music charts at six a.m. We'll find out then how we did."

"This is good, isn't it?" Del said. "Maybe we'll hit the top hundred!"

Jud punched at the air with his fist. "That would be a wail, wouldn't it?" He put his arm around Bonnie and pulled her against his side.

Del finally registered how close Jud and Bonnie were sitting. He kept his smile to himself, though. He would give Jud a hard time later. He liked them both, and it seemed a day for good things.

It was hard to sleep after that, but Del dozed for a while. Cameron woke him up, shaking Del's shoulder.

Del squinted at him. "Huh?"

"Wake up," Cameron rumbled at him. "The new chart goes up in about a minute."

Del smiled sleepily. "You're getting into this, too."

"It's all right," his bodyguard allowed.

"Come on," Randall called. "Take a listen."

Del's anticipation was fading, leaving him feeling ready to throw up. To have his hopes raised and then find out "Diamond Star" was mired way down the charts would depress him. "Maybe I shouldn't listen."

"Don't be a black hole," Jud said. "Show some spine."

Del glowered at him, even though he knew Jud was joking. "I've never been a collapsed star. And if I reveal my vertebrae, I'll need an operation."

Bonnie laughed, her voice like the ripple of a clear stream. She snuggled next to Jud, curled in his arms. "Stop teasing. Listen." She motioned toward the mesh screen. "They play a sample of each song as they release the list."

"One at a time?" Del asked. That sounded excruciating.

Anne answered. "The top hundred, yeah." She was across the table from Jud and Bonnie, slumped against the seatback with her head on a pillow, sensuously graceful. Cameron was watching her instead of the mesh.

A woman's voice rose into the air. "Number one hundred: 'Shanghai Dream,' by Betsy Wong." Fast-paced music played while the holo of a beautiful woman in a gold dress sang about a dragon.

When the thirty-second clip finished, the announcer said, "Ninety-nine. 'A Thousand Sighs,' by Masts and Sails." A fleet of holo ships appeared, cruising across Jud's mesh while several male singers harmonized about the sea, comparing it to the shoals of space.

Del listened until the countdown reached seventy. By that time, his good mood had sunk. "Diamond Star" might have debuted in the nineties, but it wasn't likely to do better, especially given that the original version had entered the charts at three hundred. He slouched back in his seat and closed his eyes. When the announcer reached the fifties, he began to doze . . .

"Wake up, you idiot!" Anne shouted.

"What!" Del sat bolt upright. "Don't yell at me."

Anne was laughing. Hell, so were Jud and Randall. And Bonnie, the traitor. Even Cameron had cracked a smile.

"Stop laughing at me," Del said. Maybe he had been snoring.

"You missed it!" Anne told him.

"I can't believe he slept through it," Randall said. "I cannot believe it."

Del's pulse jumped. "Slept through what?"

In the background, the woman said, "Number twenty-one: 'I'm Still Here,' by Jenny Summerland."

Bonnie's expression softened. "Twenty-three, Del. You debuted at twenty-three."

At first he couldn't say anything. When he finally opened his mouth, all that came out was, "That can't be true."

"No, she made it up," Jud said, laughing. "Of course it's true, you dolt."

Del tried to absorb it. Twenty-three. Gods almighty, he had a hit. The big names usually debuted in the top ten, but hell, twenty-three was no slouch.

"I wish Mac was here," Del said. Business had kept his manager from coming on this first leg of the tour.

"He's joining us in West Virginia, isn't he?" Anne said.

"Comm him," Randall said. "For this, he'll wake up early."

"He's always up this early." Del grimaced. "It's inhuman. He comms me at ridiculous hours. Like ten in the morning."

A grin quirked Jud's lips. "Yeah, that's absurd. Expecting you to be awake at ten a.m. How more inconsiderate can he be?"

Del glared at him. His sleep habits were a never-ending source of amusement for his roommate, who seemed to think waking up at seven in the morning was normal. "Can it, Tabor."

"Can what?" Jud asked innocently. "Tomatoes or sardines?"

"Oh, stop you two," Bonnie said.

Randall was peering at the mesh screen. "Maybe Mac knows. We have a comm from him. It's been waiting about twenty minutes."

"Huh." Jud flicked holicons, and Mac's voice rose into the air. "Del, if you get this in time, listen to the North American Countdown for holo-rock this morning. Then comm me."

"Hah!" Anne said. "He knew."

"How could he?" Del asked. "The count tallies keep changing right up until six a.m. The announcement is live."

"Yeah, right," Randall said. "Just like the Atlantic City-Time Hour is live."

"I've heard the big companies usually know an hour ahead," Anne said. She socked her pillow a few times and settled herself back, sleek and slender in her black mesh-jeans.

"But how would Mac know?" Del asked. "Claude, can you connect me to Mac Tyler's office?"

"Connecting," Claude said. It was the version of Del's EI that he had uploaded to Jud's mesh.

"You know what this means," Jud said. "We can ask for more on this tour. Like a flyer instead of a van."

"Tour costs still come out of our royalties," Del said. "If we ask for more, we just have to pay it back out of what we earn." He had gone over the details with Mac. Finances used to bore him silly, but when they were his finances, they turned out to be a lot more interesting.

"I have Mister Tyler on audio," Claude said.

"Mac!" Del said. "Did you hear? We're twenty-three!"

"I heard." Mac sounded pleased but oddly guarded. "Prime-Nova found out an hour ago. Ricki commed me."

Del's good mood faded. "She could have commed me."

"She's not supposed to tell the artist," Mac said. "Unwritten rule, I guess. No one is supposed to know, but execs at the conglomerates usually get the list before it's announced. She wasn't supposed to tell me, either."

Del's smile came back. "What do you think? Can we get paid more?"

"Yes." Mac still sounded guarded. "Del, how do you know Staver Aunchild?"

"Who?" The name sounded familiar, but Del couldn't place it.

"The buyer for Metropoli Interstellar. It's a Skolian media conglomerate. He's been on Earth, scouting talent."

"Oh. That's right." Now Del remembered. "I met him at a party Ricki took me to. Then I saw him after my Atlantic City-Time appearance. He said I should send him some of my stuff. But we never heard back. I figured he wasn't interested."

"He may have changed his mind," Mac said. "He contacted Prime-Nova this morning."

Randall let out a whoop. "We're going interstellar!"

"Don't celebrate yet," Mac told him. "Just because he expressed interest doesn't mean you'll make the sale." Then he added, "And you all have to want this."

"Why wouldn't we?" Anne asked.

"Del?" Mac's tone remained guarded. "Do you want your music going to the Skolians?"

Del inhaled, realizing what Mac wanted him to consider. His family might see all this. He hadn't wanted them to watch him fail, but if this worked out, they would see him succeed. If they noticed. Yes, sure, the Skolian military was undoubtedly monitoring him here with covert bots or agents. But their main concern would be that he was safe. No one in his family listened to holo-rock. It was funny trying to imagine his Aunt Dehya, the Ruby Pharaoh, rocking out to his songs. Or his mother, gods forbid. They wouldn't understand what it meant that he had a hit, but if his music became big among their own people, they would see that others considered him a success. And that mattered to him.

Del just said, "Sure."

"You're positive?" Mac asked.

"Yes," Del said. "I'm sure."

"All right. I'll let you know what Aunchild says."

After they signed off, Anne studied Del. "Why would Mac think you didn't want your music with the Skolians?"

Del shrugged. "Maybe he always has to check."

Jud was watching him, too, with a scrutiny Del had noticed before, as if his roommate was trying to decipher him. "Skolians make you uncomfortable."

Del laughed, trying to cover his unease. "No, they don't."

"It just happened again," Jud told him.

Del shifted his weight. "What happened again?"

"You get that 'I don't want to talk' look whenever anyone mentions the Skolian Imperialate."

Damn. He had to distract them. Make it look like a joke. "Well, you know," Del said with mock solemnity. "I'm Skolian."

"That so?" Randall said. "Yet here you are, living in Baltimore."

"Actually," Anne said, "at the moment, he's in a van."

"ASC brought me here," Del told them. "To Earth. To keep me in custody. Except they had to let me go because I hadn't done anything wrong." He laughed. "So I decided to be a rock star. To improve relations between your people and mine."

"Well, goodness," Anne said. "Aren't you important."

"Yeah, he's a real ambassador," Randall said. "Hey, Allied Space Command liked him so much, they gave him a commission in the military."

"A starship command!" Bonnie said. "Captain Del."

Jud leaned back on the seat, his arm around Bonnie. "That would be one hell of a starship, eh?"

"Where are you from, really?" Anne asked. "Your accent sounds Irish, a little."

"I am actually from offworld," Del said. "A planet called Lyshriol. And it really is a rediscovered colony from the Ruby Empire. It's just that Earth found it before the Skolians. But I descend from those original colonists."

"Heh." Jud laid his cheek on top of Bonnie's head. "That's weird. I thought you came from an Allied colony."

Del wished he could share more with them. "Lyshriol looks like our virt. Except it's prettier."

"Do you miss it?" Anne asked.

"A lot," Del said. More than he had expected. "I'm going to go home for a visit after we finish this tour."

"It might not be that easy." Jud lifted his head. "Prime-Nova will want to capitalize on the success of 'Diamond Star.' If it debuted this high, you've a good chance of breaking into the top ten. If that happens, they're going to pump you out to all the publicity venues. Talk shows, media appearances, all that."

"Oh." Del hesitated. "Well, I'll figure out some way to get home."

Surely they couldn't keep him busy all the time.

Mac pulled his hover-car into the secured area behind the Skylight Arena and let out a relieved breath. He had an hour to spare, and a local band was set to play before Del. Although it wasn't a large concert, only two thousand people, the organizers had their act together. They had set up the backstage lot so only drivers with passes could get in. For acts larger than Del, it protected the musicians from being mobbed by fans.

Just as important to Mac, he had a private pad for his car. He hated concert parking, with the crowded lots and jostling vehicles. Some lead-brained joker always tried to hover his car over someone else's. Sure, in theory, a hover-car could go that high. But who wanted tons of car blasting air down on their car, unstable and unsteady? It would take a gruesome accident, though, before the legislators passed that stalled bill making it illegal to hover one car over another. The powerful vehicle conglomerates made more money when people bought jacked-up models that could manage those wretched feats. So Mac was grateful for the private lot.

Inside, Mac found Del and the others in the green room behind the stage at the arena.

"Hey, Mac!" Del bounded over and whacked him on the back, sloshing wine out of the glass he held in his other hand. "You're the best."

Mac smiled at him. "Hello to you, too."

"Twenty-three," Anne sang across the room, dancing around with her glass of red wine.

"And the concert is sold out!" Jud called. He and Bonnie were together on a sofa. He had his arm draped around her shoulders, and they both had glasses of whatever Anne was drinking. Randall was in a recliner, holding a glass of something clear, ouzo probably, his favorite.

Cameron stood by the wall, watching the others, his arms crossed. The band had grown so used to his presence, they barely seemed to notice him. He lifted anything heavy that needed lifting and otherwise remained in the background.

As Anne waltzed around the room, Mac scowled at them. "You're all drunk."

"Oh no-oh, we're no-ot, Maaaaac," Del sang. "We're so-oh, we're ho-ot, Jaaaack." In a normal voice, he added, "We're celebrating. You should, too."

Mac couldn't help but smile. "Not your lyrics." He took the glass out of Del's hand. "I thought alcohol didn't affect you."

"It doesn't," Del said cheerfully. He motioned at the others. "But I feel what they feel. And it does affect them."

Oh, great. Secondary empathic inebriation. "No more alcohol for any of you," Mac said. "Wait until after the concert."

"All right," Del said, his boyish face flushed with good spirits. "But come on! Aren't you glad? People like my song!"

His enthusiasm caught Mac. "I'm thrilled. You deserve this." In a quieter voice, he said, "I know you don't want me to worry. But I can't help it."

Del pretended to punch him in the arm. "It's not like I'm the only person with an allergy who became a performer."

Allergy seemed way too simplified for Del's health problems, but Mac saw why he used the word. It avoided awkward explanations. Mac wanted to be glad for Del. He wished the part of him that dreaded Del's success would shut up and go away. But the better he knew Del, the more he liked him. He wished the youth would adopt some safe, princely lifestyle, like playing croquet and going to staid dinner parties. Which was about as likely as the moon falling on Mac's head.

When a stagehand gave the five-minute warning, they went to a curtained entrance of the stage. As Bonnie held up the curtain, they ran out in what had become their trademark entrance. Their equipment was waiting, and the AIs in the morpher, drums, and stringer had coordinated their setup with the human tech who oversaw the control boards. Green lights glowed on the instruments as if they were starships announcing their readiness to fly.

A tech threw Del a mike, and he grabbed it out of the air. As the crowd screamed, he and the band launched into "Breathing Underwater," one of the few covers they did, a work by Hayim Ani and the band Point Valid:

Just a little boy, left in a house of pain
Wondering where all the ashes went
Now I'm standing in a spotlight of shame
Staring at my black and empty frame

Yet when I close my eyes, I feel the warmth of the sea
I fall into sleep, but you're there to catch me
Your arms are outstretched, you're loving no other
Together we'll learn how to breathe underwater

Gone was the frightened youth who froze on stage; tonight Del moved with ease, striding back and forth, giving the audience what they came to see. His blue pants and white shirt were holoscreens, and blue light surrounded him in a halo. Abstract light-swirls in green, gold, and aqua glowed above the stage, over the audience, and in the aisles, rippling, shimmering. Blue and green light fountained up behind the band, and more holos washed the stage, submerging them in a sea of light. The stage itself morphed subtly, adding to the wave effect, constantly analyzing Del's position so its ripples didn't knock him over.

As always, Mac had a paramedic standing by in case Del had a convulsion. It had only happened once more, a few days after the first. The paramedic found nothing wrong, nor did the doctor at the emergency clinic where Mac took Del despite the youth's protests. They told Del to eat better and sleep more. So now Del always made sure to rest after a concert. Mac didn't know what to make of his using a virt to relax, but it worked. He had no more convulsions.

And yet, watching Del sing, his eyes glazed in empathic ecstasy, Mac shuddered. The doctors claimed Del was fine, but Mac couldn't shake his sense of foreboding.

After the concert, Del wolfed down several sandwiches a tech gave him. Eventually he and Cameron went back to the green room, where they found Randall talking to a blond fellow who looked like a graduate student at the college.

"I can fix it however you want," the blond man was saying.

Randall was easing his stringer into the velvet interior of its case. "I don't think so, Casper. But thanks."

"I suppose I could find someone else." Casper's glance slid toward Del, then back to Randall.

Del couldn't focus. His head hummed with energy, coiled and tight. It wasn't as bad as with the big concerts; two thousand people were much easier to deal with. And this crowd had been one of the best yet. After the show, Mac had stayed backstage and watched him eat instead of checking on the equipment. Del didn't know why. Well, okay he did. Mac wanted to make sure he didn't have another convulsion. But he felt good tonight, and after a while Mac had left him with Cameron while he saw to other business.

"Hey." Casper nodded as Del wandered over to them. "That was a great show."

"Thanks," Del said.

"I gave him tickets," Randall said. "We went to school near here, at Virginia Tech."

Casper gave a burst of laughter. "I went to school. Randy screwed off. Every now and then he remembered to come to class."

"I did not screw off," Randal said. "I had a perfectly respectable C average."

Casper snorted. "You barely passed."

Del had nothing to say. He would have given anything for a barely passing record, but he would never even take a college class. He hadn't really graduated from high school. His teachers arranged some diploma thing verifying he did his work visually and through music. Their report said his illiteracy stemmed from neurological differences in his brain. Del had been too ashamed to care what the hell they meant. He knew the truth. He was stupid. He knew it every time he saw his brother Windar, who had a doctorate in literature or his brother Vyrl, with his doctorate in agriculture. Their sister Soz had been top of her class at the military academy. People called his aunt Dehya the fair-haired genius despite her black hair; apparently "fair-haired" meant she was favored, in this case with her mathematical brilliance. Whatever genes they had all inherited had skipped him. Compared to the rest of his family, he was an utter idiot.

"Del." Randall was watching him. "What's wrong?"

Del struggled to focus. "My brain's all twisted in knots."

"Do your virt thing," Randall said. "It loosens you up."

"You want a bliss-virt?" Casper asked Del. He tilted his head at Randall. "I got him one, and he says no."

Randall scowled at Casper. "Del doesn't need that shit."

Del couldn't believe it. Just like that, Do you want a bliss-virt? His attempts to find out more about them had all met blank walls. Now here this Casper dropped one in his lap.

Del was aware of Cameron across the room, pouring himself a drink of water, supposedly ignoring them. Del knew perfectly well the Marine could hear everything with his mech-enhanced ears. But damn it, Cameron was his bodyguard, not his warden.

"Can you really get me a bliss-node?" Del asked Casper.

"Del, I mean it," Randall said. "Now, just when things are good, don't flat-line it by scorching your brain."

"What scorching?" Casper asked. "It's just virtual reality."

Del couldn't think what to say. He knew that if Randall thought he might ruin the band's success, he would go to Mac with his concerns. Nor was Del sure what Cameron would do. The Marine didn't have the same inflexible attitude Del had found so stifling in the bodyguards the Skolian military assigned him. In his youth, as a lesser heir of the Ruby Dynasty, Del hadn't had to take guards, but that was before he died on Metropoli and spent all those years in cryo. Now in the rare instances when he went offworld, the military insisted he have a bodyguard. Given how little Del had to offer the Imperialate, he had no doubt the taciturn mammoths were supposed to protect him from himself more than from anyone else.

Even if Cameron liked him better than his past guards, he might tell Mac about the bliss-node. It wasn't Mac's damn business, but everyone and his uncle here seemed to report on Del. Like really, his life was that interesting? Surely Earth's government had better things to do than spy on their resident, royal rock singer. In truth, he suspected General McLane felt the same way. But none of them had much choice in the matter.

He spoke reluctantly to Casper. "I guess I shouldn't."

"Yeah. Sure," Casper said, his expression guarded. "Okay."

Del wondered about Casper's look. He concentrated, and with his mind so sensitized by the concert, he easily picked up what he wanted to know.

Casper would contact him later.

Del opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach with plant stalks soft against his cheeks. Rolling onto his back, he stared at reeds swaying over him. The sky arched overhead. The lavender sky. Jud teased him about saying "lavender," claiming men never used that word. Del didn't care. What was he supposed to say? Purple? It wasn't purple. Blue clouds drifted into view. The sweet fragrance of reeds filled the air, tickling his nose. A few bubbles detached from the stalks and floated lazily across his field of view. He sighed, content. He could lie forever in Lyshriol's endless spring.

He was home.

After a while, Del sat up and looked around. Dalvador lay about a ten-minute walk away, purple-turreted roofs rising out of the swaying plain. It was wonderfully familiar, but odd, too. He didn't remember how he had come home.

"This is beautiful," a man said.

Del jerked around. Casper was standing a few paces away.

"How did you get here?" Del asked. He stopped, confused. "Uh . . . how did I get here?"

"It's the virt." Casper sat cross-legged next to him, crushing the reeds. "Filaments in the bliss-node helmet extend into your brain."

"The bliss! I forgot." Del inhaled deeply. "Everything is so real. Not slick and shallow like a commercial virt."

Casper's smile flashed. "It doesn't get better than this." He looked reassuring, solid. A friend.

"Why didn't I remember how I got here?" Del asked.

"It happens," Casper said. "Some people completely forget, it's so real."

"Then how do you get out?" Del asked.

"You don't remember that, either? We set this for an hour."

"Oh. Right." It was coming back. Del and Casper had left the concert arena together. Casper had fascinated Del, telling him about his work in the campus library, organizing academic virts. Given the trouble Del had finding a bliss-node, he doubted Casper's bliss came from any library collection. He was just glad Casper had shared it. Even more amazing, the librarian hadn't charged him. Del didn't know what a session like this normally cost, but he suspected Casper was being far more generous than he let on.

Del took his new friend to Dalvador. Each time they met someone Del knew, he introduced Casper. The Earthman bewildered everyone. The people of Dalvador acted the way Del expected, but not exactly. The virt extrapolated from his memories to create an even more realistic experience. Everyone spoke English, though, which changed their behavior and personalities slightly. But if anything made Del uncomfortable, the virt subtly altered until he liked the experience.

He didn't take Casper to meet his family. Some things were too personal to share, especially with someone he had just met.

They were walking up a blue cobblestone street when Casper said, "It's time to go."

"But we just got here," Del said.

Casper looked apologetic. "It's been almost an hour. We've only a few minutes left."

"Oh." Disappointment surged in Del, sharp and intense. "Can we make it longer?"

"Afraid not." Casper spoke awkwardly. "These sessions cost a lot. I got this one to share with Randall, like we used to at Virginia Tech. But I could only afford an hour."

"I'll pay you back," Del said.

"Hey, don't sweat it." Casper's smile was engaging. "I hadn't planned to charge Randall. But we do have to go. The helmet will deactivate in a few minutes."

"The bliss-node is in the VR helmet?"

"Not the node, just a chip made with it. The chip falls apart after you use what you paid for."

Such a waste. "Could I buy my own node?" Del asked. Then he could have this experience whenever he wanted.

Casper gave a derisive snort. "Maybe you can. The likes of me could never afford it."

Del knew he shouldn't ask. But it came out anyway. "How much?"

"A few hundred kay. The helmets are about four."

Del was sure he must have misheard. "You mean a few hundred thousand renormalized dollars?" As far as Del could tell, people called them "renormalized" dollars because sometime in the past, the dollar had become worth so little that the government had decided to redefine it. Ten renormalized dollars was the same amount as what used to be thousands of dollars.

"Yeah, that's right," Casper said. "Three hundred thousand for a cheap bliss-node. Half a million if you want top quality." He spoke dryly. "Not what most of us have lying around."

No kidding. Prime-Nova had loaned Del ten thousand dollars, but it had to cover his expenses until he found another source of income. Although Prime-Nova paid royalties twice a year, Del hadn't "earned out" his advance. Apparently that meant Prime-Nova had given him more money up front than he had yet made on his vid and virt. Until his earnings exceeded what they had paid him and his other multitude of expenses, he wouldn't see another dollar. If "Diamond Star" continued to do well, he might earn something the next pay period, but it wouldn't be much, besides which, it was several months until then.

"That's too much for me," Del said.

Casper smiled ruefully. "I always thought you rock stars were rich."

Del gave a startled laugh. "I'm no star." An idea tugged at him. He tried ignoring it, but it wouldn't go away. He had his dynastic accounts. He had been twenty-one when he went into cryo, so his assets had collected interest for decades. When he had first come out, he had been too sick to care about money. It had taken years before he recovered enough to resume a normal life. But he had control over his accounts now, and he could access them since Earth's military had stopped blocking him. Half a million wouldn't even dent his assets. If he touched that money, he would go back on his promise to himself to make his own living, but the thought of having this experience any time he wished was too tempting.

"Suppose I could buy a node?" Del said. "How would I do it?"

Casper's eyes took on a glint. "Maybe I can help you."

XIII: Sea of Light

The week after its debut, Diamond Star rose to number fifteen on the holo-rock chart. In week three, it hit seven in holo-rock and debuted at thirty-seven on the Continental Hundred. In its fourth week, it rose to number two in holo-rock and twenty-nine on the continental chart. That same week, Mind Mix's "Time to Sing" hit number one on both the continental and holo-rock charts, continuing their undisputed reign as the kings of rock. In its fifth week, "Diamond Star" stayed mired at number two in holo-rock, plagued with the bad luck of having its greatest movement at the same time as a single from Prime-Nova's superstars.

In week seven, "Diamond Star" dethroned Mind Mix on both charts and became the most popular song on the North American continent.

"He has to be here," Ricki shouted cheerfully, trying to make herself heard above the loud music in the crowded hotel room.

"I saw him a few minutes ago," Mac shouted back. Glistening people swirled about them, talking, drinking, dancing to Del's music. "I'll go find him."

Her smile flashed. "I'll be at the bar. Don't be long!"

He waved and didn't try to answer. It was too noisy. He didn't know where Del had vanished to, but Mac doubted he had left. The party was for him, after all.

After ten minutes, Mac still hadn't found him. Anne Moore was enthroned on the couch, signing vids for The Jewels Suite. Jud and Bonnie were slow dancing despite the music's jazzy beat. Randall was holding court, talking to a cluster of musicians, including several prominent stringers. They were all having a great time. So where was Del?

Mac slipped out the glass doors of the suite. A swimming pool lay to his left, and marble benches curved around the patio. Beyond them, trees extended for over an acre. He entered the woods, following a crystal-flecked path. Moonlight sifted through the trees, giving the night a burnished quality, as if it were edged in silver. He came to another marble bench, this one back in the trees, almost hidden from the path. A man and a woman sat there, embracing. Mac quickly moved on.

It was ten minutes before Mac found another bench. A man sat there, leaning against a tree, staring into space.

"Hello," Mac said.

Del looked up with a jerk. "Oh!" He rubbed his palm over his cheek, so clearly smearing away tears that Mac's heart lurched.

Mac hesitated. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Please do." Del motioned to the bench. "Have a seat."

Mac settled on the bench. "You're missing a great party. Ricki came all the way out here to Chicago to see you."

"She did?" Del's smile flashed. "That's good."

Mac spoke with care. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Del gave a shaky laugh. "It's just a lot, you know."

"You've earned it." That was putting it mildly, given the way Del had persevered with his music for his entire life despite nothing but negative feedback.

"It's so hard to believe," Del said. "Maybe I'm not a failure after all."

"You never were," Mac said gently.

Del's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "Zachary commed me this morning. Prime-Nova is releasing The Jewels Suite worldwide. And did you see? Staver Aunchild is here! He wants to sell The Jewels Suite to Skolians." Del rubbed his palm over his eyes. "My father liked "Sapphire Clouds." He tried to like the others. I think he understood about my music, even if he didn't understand the songs. He knew I had to do it. He felt that way about his."

"You must miss him."

"Always." Del leaned back and gazed into the trees. "I guess I should tell my family. But what if they want me to stop?" He gave Mac a rueful glance. "I don't know why they would. I mean, I'm not far up any line of succession, and I'm no use for powering the Kyle-mesh. After all that time in cryo, it would kill me to use my mind that way. But if they want me home, it would be hard to say no."

"Would they force you?" Mac asked.

Del thought about it. "I'd like to think not. But I don't know." He smiled at Mac, a simple smile with no mischief, wicked glints, or surly undertones. Just a man who had received a gift he never expected. "Even if it ends tomorrow, Mac, this is one of the best things that ever happened to me."

Mac grinned. "Then come back and celebrate."

Together, they walked back to the hotel.

"Are you sure?" Mac said into his wrist comm. The van shook as they hovered over some bump in the road. "Can you talk louder? I can't hear you."

Del shifted around, unable to sit still. They were all gathered in the circular seat at the back of the van, except for Cameron and Randall, who were in seats up front. The van whirred on through the bright day, headed for the Sports Fields outside of Chicago.

"You must have another way!" Mac was saying. "What? No, this wasn't one of our tour stops. We were only asked yesterday to play the festival. We don't have any prep here."

Del glanced at Jud. "You have any idea what's wrong?"

Jud shook his head, his beaded dreadlocks clacking on his shoulders. "No clue."

"That isn't acceptable," Mac was saying. "Don't you have a pass-coded parking lot behind the stage?"

"For flipping sakes," Anne said. "He's mad about not having a parking space. He hates that."

Del tried to relax. Bad parking they could handle. The festival organizers had invited them at the last minute and agreed to pay a big fee for the request. It wouldn't surprise him if they had a mix-up, but he hoped not, because he wanted this show. The outdoor festival had over twenty of the biggest bands in holo-rock, including Jenny Summerland, the Conquistadors, and of course Mind Mix. Del hadn't performed in a show like this since his Philadelphia disaster. He wanted to prove he could do a good job.

Mac swore under his breath. Then he said, "What? Yeah. A guy named Cameron. Just one. You'll need to provide more."

Del glanced at Cameron, who was listening intently. "Do you know what they're talking about?"

"Security, probably," Cameron said. "Mac doesn't need me to park."

"Damn it," Mac said. "How could we plan for it? We were invited yesterday. I want two. Otherwise Del Arden doesn't play. Got that?"

"Wait a minute!" Del said. "Don't say--"

Mac shook his head, motioning Del to silence. Into his comm, he said, "Yes, that'll work. Behind the stage. Twenty minutes. Okay. Good."

As Mac switched off his comm, Del said, "Don't tell them I won't sing!"

"They don't have a secured lot for the van," Mac said.

Randall glared at him. "You need two parking pads?"

"Ah, hell," Jud said. "Not parking. He means the gauntlet."

Randall's attention perked up. "We're going to run the gauntlet? Cool."

"What gauntlet?" Del asked, bewildered.

Mac spoke quietly. "The audience is at six hundred thousand, twice what they expected."

"So?" Del said. "That's good."

Mac regarded him with a strange expression, as if he saw an avalanche poised over their heads. "It's a rowdy audience. It overflowed their security lines. You have to go onstage without a secured area."

"In other words, you have to mix with the crowd," Jud said.

Del shrugged. "So what? I don't need special treatment."

"Del's right." Randall's laugh rumbled. "Come on, guys. It'll be fun. We can sign autographs."

Mac gave him a dour look. "Before or after you get trampled?"

"Oh, come on," Randall said. "I've seen plenty of guys go on stage through the audience. So what? People yell and wave and ask you to sign vids. Big fucking deal."

Del finally understood. Mac didn't want a Skolian prince vulnerable in a crowd. He spoke gently. "Don't worry, okay? Remember when I told you about the cryogenics, and I said I wanted to make my own choices? I meant it, Mac. I'll be fine. If I get roughed up a bit, it's okay."

"I hate it," Mac said. "Any time someone touches you."

"Holy shit," Randall said. "You guys are, like, lovers?"

"For crying out loud." Del's face burned. "No, we are not 'like, lovers.' He's worried about my safety, that's all."

"Father figure," Anne decided, studying Mac. "You're afraid to see Del hurt because he's like a son to you."

"Something like that," Mac said, looking awkward.

"What did you mean about cryogenics?" Bonnie asked Del.

Del wished he'd kept his mouth shut. "It's nothing."

"It's obviously something," Randall said.

Jud scowled at him. "And he obviously doesn't want to talk about it."

Anne spoke to Mac. "We'll be fine. It's no big deal."

Mac tried to smile. "Yeah. Sure. You have Cameron. And they're sending two of their security guys, just in case."

"So you see," Del said. "No need to worry."

"We can't get closer!" Mac said into his comm. Sweat covered his forehead despite the air-conditioned van.

They were stopped hundreds of yards from the pavilion where they were supposed to meet the two guards. Beyond the tent, the huge stage of the Chicago Sports Fields dominated the view. People flooded the area, and gleaming orbs rotated above the crowd, broadcasting music from the stage. No one in the unrepentant throng paid any attention to the vehicles mired among them. Security bots were keeping the crowds in check, but they didn't make anyone move. Given the unexpected size of the crowd, Del suspected the concert organizers wanted to avoid getting people angry or violent. He knew nothing about putting together festivals, but it seemed like lousy planning to him.

"We could just walk to the tent," Del said. "No one will know us."

"They might," Jud said. "Your face is all over the m-verse."

"It is?" Del had been on tour since "Diamond Star" rose up the charts. He'd listened to a few reviews, mainly for the novelty of hearing people actually say good things about his work, but the rest of the time he spent in his virts or asleep.

Except for that night with Ricki. She had stayed after the party--and left him to wake up alone. Again. Why? She said her job kept her busy. Right. He had made himself vulnerable when he admitted how much her leaving bothered him, and he felt as if she had thrown his trust back in his face. He could talk to her again, try to work it out, but he was beginning to wonder if he should. The ups and downs of their relationship drained him.

"What happened to the security guys?" Mac was saying into the comm. "No, an hour is not good. That's when Del goes on. We have to set up first. Yeah, I'll ask." He glanced at Del and the others. "This is George Morales, the stage manager. He wants to know if you all can get your equipment to the stage from here."

"We can carry the instruments," Jud said. "That's not the problem." He waved at the milling crowds on the view screens. "If we take our equipment out there, we'll be lucky to get it to the stage. As soon as people see, they'll know we're one of the bands. They might start grabbing our stuff."

"This drills," Cameron said. "Their security bots should have cleared out this place."

"It's a freedom festival," Randall said. "You know, no authoritarian control."

"What authoritarian?" Jud demanded. "The bots are flipping machines."

Mac gave them a sour look. "Freedom festival is a euphemism for 'license to misbehave.' "

"Oh, come on," Randall said. "They're just having fun."

"What happened to the guards they promised?" Cameron asked.

"They have some big, beefy types," Mac said. "But they need those guys to help the bots protect the performers. People keep rushing the stage, and the bots can't make subtle enough distinctions of who to stop and how." He gave Cameron a wry smile. "So it looks like you're our only big beef."

The Marine's eyes glinted. "You don't get bigger than me."

"Oh my," Anne said. "Do tell." Cameron actually cracked a smile at her.

Mac spoke into his comm. "Morales? The band doesn't think it's safe for their equipment. Yeah. Okay, I'll ask." He glanced at Jud. "They have a Voxerlight III-Beta on the stage. That's the same brand as your morpher, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Jud said. "But a different model. And it doesn't have my programs."

"Could you port your files to their Voxer?"

Jud didn't look thrilled with the idea. "Not unless they can guarantee the files will be protected. No duplication, and I erase it all after we finish."

Mac relayed the answer to the manager, then told Jud, "Morales says no problem. They do that all the time."

"I've never practiced on their Voxer," Jud said. "I'll probably make mistakes. Even if I don't, it won't sound exactly the same."

Mac motioned at the crowds on the view screens. "People aren't paying that much attention. I doubt anyone expects it to sound the same."

Jud nodded as if accepting a mission. "I'll do it."

"What stringers do they have?" Randall asked.

"And drums," Anne said.

Mac went back and forth with George until they settled on a set of drums for Anne, including smart-skins with AI programming. But they had no stringers Randall felt would work.

"Some people out there have guitar cases," Jud said. "If you put your stringer in one, you could carry it incognito."

"In cog what?" Randall said.

Anne gave a throaty laugh. "Incognito. In disguise."

Listening to them, Del had a sudden inspiration. He sang softly into his ticker to record the words he couldn't write. "I'm no fair-haired genius hiding in disguise / I'm no golden hero in the blazing skies."

"Yeah, well, good for you," Randall said. He looked at Mac. "I need a morph engine, too. And that's too heavy to carry."

"They have a Strato-premier Model Six onstage," Mac said. "Would that work?"

"Hell, yeah!" Randall sat up straighter. "I'd use a Strato any day."

"That solves the equipment problems," Bonnie said. She motioned at Del. "Now we have to get him up there." With a smile, she added, "No other model will do."

Del grinned at her. "I'm irreplaceable."

Mac considered him. "A lot of people out there have on VR goggles. You can hide your eyes with a pair and put your hair under a cap. If you wear one of my shirts over yours, to make you look bigger, probably no one will recognize you."

"Sounds good to me," Del said with a laugh. "Incognito."

"Okay," Mac said. "Here's the plan. Randall, you go first, so if anyone clicks to what we're doing, hopefully you'll already have your stringer up there. Jud, you go with Bonnie and Anne. Cameron and I will bring Del."

"What, no protection for my stringer?" Randal waved his hand at Del. "I know he's the big name and we're just hired help, but if my piece gets trashed, we got no music."

"You're not just hired help!" Del turned to Mac. "Send Cameron with him, then have Cameron come back for Anne and Bonnie."

"Hey," Jud said. "I can protect these lovely women."

Anne smirked at him. "I'm the one with the black belt in karate, sweets. I could kick your ass from here to Los Angeles."

Randall snorted. "I'll bet your boyfriend loves it when you talk that way."

"Does he?" Cameron asked her, suddenly intent.

She turned her sultry gaze on him. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Del can kick," Bonnie said. "I've seen him practicing."

"I have, too," Anne said, glancing at Del. "The moves are different, though. Do you have a black belt?"

Perplexed, Del tapped his belt. "Yeah, this one."

Jud sighed. "Del, sometimes you have so little clue."

Mac spoke firmly. "No tossing people around, Del, unless you're in real danger."

Exasperated, Del answered, "I never said I'd toss anyone."

"Come on," Randall said. "Let's go."

Cameron eased open the side door, and he and Randall jumped down. No one paid attention. Randall held his stringer case between his body and Cameron as they headed for the pavilion. People were waiting for them at the entrance, and the air there shimmered as Cameron and Randall ducked inside.

Within moments, Cameron ambled out again. For some bizarre reason, he wandered around. Then Del realized that if he just strode back, it could draw attention; this way, no one noticed as he gradually drifted toward the van.

Anne, Bonnie, and Jud stepped out next, laughing together like any other festivalgoers. Del watched them on the screen. He didn't realize Cameron had slipped into the van until he looked up and saw his guard standing by his seat, bending his head to fit under the roof.

"Let's go," Del said. He felt like they were on their own covert operation. Mission Rock Festival. Hah! His Imperator brother would have a fit.

Del tucked his hair under a green cap and donned the goggles. Everything turned blue, like the lenses. Mac carried the sack with Del's clothes for the concert, and Cameron opened the door. As they stepped into the late afternoon sunlight, Del inhaled the fresh air. Jud claimed that long ago the people of Earth had almost destroyed the atmosphere with pollution. They must have cleaned it up, because it smelled wonderful, and right, appealing to him at some instinctual level.

"Nice day," Cameron said.

"Yeah." Del watched the crowd as he and Cameron headed for the tent. Everyone was blue.

A woman with blue-blond hair peered at him. "Aren't you Del Arden?"

Damn. How could she tell? "No," Del said. Cameron moved between him and the woman.

A man on Del's other side said, "Hey! It is him."

"Can't be," a kid said. "Arden isn't playing the festival."

Del shot Mac an alarmed look, then realized no one could see his eyes behind the goggles.

Someone pushed Mac. At the same time, the woman who had first spoken stepped past Cameron. As the Marine gently caught her arm, someone behind Del dragged his goggles around his neck and pulled at his cap. Flustered, Del grabbed the cap. He was too late; his hair fell out in its distinctive spill of curls.

"It's Del Arden," someone said. "Look! Over here!"

The people pressed closer. Cameron loomed at Del's side, holding his arm, and Mac took Del's other arm.

"Del, we love you," a woman called.

Del grinned at her. "Hey, I love you, too."

Another woman grabbed his hair. While Cameron fended her off, someone yanked Del's shirt, then let go when it didn't rip. Someone else shoved at Mac, and he swore as he stumbled.

Del was getting flustered, as more people tugged his clothes. The crowd stretched everywhere, rumbling. Someone yelled, but they were too far away to make out words. Excitement rolled over the throng, and the smell of cooking meat assaulted Del's senses. Then a woman pulled him to the side and kissed him, her lips soft on his cheek. He didn't know whether to kiss her back or run. Cameron hustled him away, but they had lost Mac. Looking around, Del glimpsed his manager a few paces back. The older man was flushed, and Del worried someone might knock him over.

Someone dragged Del away from Cameron. Several someones. Four women, with spiky hair and pretty faces. They were running their hands through Del's curls, which he would have liked, except everything was jagged and confused and happening too fast. One kissed him, pressing her lips against his. Del lost his balance and started to fall. More people pushed in, and for one dizzying moment he thought he was going down under the crush of their feet.

Cameron heaved him back up. "Move aside," the Marine barked at everyone. "Let him through."

The tent loomed in front of them, its entrance shimmering. A guard motioned them in, his gaze darting to the crowd. Then Del was inside and everything went quiet, the chaos muted. A thump came from outside, but no one followed them. He realized then that the shimmer he kept seeing was a molecular airlock around the tent. From school, he vaguely remembered the airlock was something called a "lipid membrane," with a variable permeability. Del hadn't learned the biochemistry that well, but he understood the result; you could tune the membrane to be leaky or watertight to many things, including air--or people.

"Hey!" Jud said as they all gathered around Del. "You okay?"

"I'm fine!" Del said, laughing. "Those people are crazy, though. Did you see those girls?" He looked around behind him. "Mac got pushed--oh! There you are." Mac was coming toward him, disheveled but otherwise fine.

Anne let out a breath. "That was some gauntlet."

"I've seen people line up for autographs," Jud said. "But never anything like the way they were grabbing you."

"You all right?" Mac asked Del as he came up to them.

"Sure." Del felt queasy, but it was because people had been shoving Mac, not him. "You're the one I was worried about."

"I'm fine," Mac assured him. "That was bizarre, though."

"They like him," Anne said. Though she smiled, she looked as uneasy as Del felt. "A lot."

Del had no objection to people liking him. But if it meant he would be trampled, he could do with a little less friendship.

Mac stood in the darkened wings of the stage, watching Del. Despite the short notice, the gauntlet an hour ago, and unfamiliar instruments for the band, it was Del's best concert yet. Instead of drowning in empathic stage fright, he embraced the effect, amplifying the audience's excitement. Mac suspected that many performers who were considered "magnetic" did something similar, giving back emotions they picked up. Del strode across the stage, wailing in his magnificent baritone, his voice soaring. He stopped at the front and knelt down, crooning to a woman:

Angel, be my diamond star
Before my darkness goes too far
Splinter through my endless night
Lightening my darkling sight

Why your darkness? Mac had always wondered who Del was singing to in "Diamond Star."

When Del finished, he shouted to the audience. "Thank you all for coming. You've been great!"

A roar surged from the crowd overflowing the meadows in this former industrial complex outside Chicago, which over the centuries had softened into a luxuriant parkland. People flattened the grass, camping out, picnicking, playing sports, dancing. Most could only hear the music through the globes that whirred and spun everywhere.

The audience applauded, cheered, and stamped as the band left the stage. Mac stood with the vibration of those pounding feet shuddering through him and wished he didn't feel as if they were coming to trample the young man who stirred up all that fervor.

Del and Jud came over to him. "Hey," Del said, smiling. "I think they liked it."

Mac smiled. "You're into understatement tonight." It pleased him to see Del so calm despite the huge audience.

"It's so hard to believe this is happening." Del stared at the people, gazing past the light amplifiers that hid him from the crowd. Jud stood at his side, a wordless support. They made a good team, Jud as the musical genius who brought Del's songs alive.

The pounding increased, and people waved mesh screens over their heads, thousands at once, until a sea of glittering light rippled around the stage. Anne and Randall came over to Del, their faces flushed, and Cameron stood nearby, looming and silent.

"We better do the encore," Anne said with a husky laugh. "Before they shake down the stage."

Del grinned. "Let's go!"

They ran back out, and the audience screamed. So many. Mac wondered what incredible force rose out of the raw, driving soul of rock, that it could bring six hundred thousand people together with such energy. Del had no idea of the power he wielded.

Mac hoped he never found out.

XIV: The Star Road

"What's this?" Anne asked. She was relaxing on the hotel couch, her long legs stretched across a table in front of it while she looked through a holofile of Del's songs. " 'Carnelians'? That sounds like part of The Jewels Suite."

"It was," Del said as he sank into an absurdly expensive armchair. Randall stood at the bar, pouring himself a drink. Jud was working on the console near the window, with holos of musical notes floating in the air.

Anne sang the first verse of "Carnelians":

You dehumanized us; your critics, they died
You answered defiance with massive genocide
Hunt us as your prey, assault, and enslave
Force us bound to stay, for pleasures that you crave

Randall wandered over. "That's strong stuff."

Del shifted uneasily. "Mac said it was too political."

Jud glanced up at them. "What's it about?"

Del knew if he said the Trader Aristos, they'd ask questions he didn't want to answer. So he just said, "Oppression, I suppose."

"This isn't your usual stuff." Anne continued singing:

They strangled our summers, your Carnelian Sons
You anguished the mothers, in your war of suns
With a heart that freezes, you shattered my kin
You thought you were leaving no one who could win

She flipped through more of the holofile. "You have two versions here with different music."

"It's not finished," Del said. He wished she would put it away. Before he could say anything more, though, the door hummed.

"Who's that?" Randall asked. He downed the rest of his ouzo.

Jud switched his console to a view of the entryway. A group of gorgeous people in glimmer-glam clothes stood outside, including Ricki.

Del sat up straighter. "So let them in."

The door opened, and the sleek crowd swept inside: Mac, Ricki, Staver Aunchild, and several execs from Prime-Nova.

"Hey, babe." Ricki swayed over, dynamite in a clingy blue dress that covered her from neck to knee and yet somehow made her look as if she was wearing nothing.

"Hey," Del said. He was still angry at her, but he missed her, too. In his youth, he would have rebuffed her to avoid dealing with his tangled emotions, but he couldn't do that anymore. Since they couldn't talk about it now, either, he just watched her. When she leaned over him, he grabbed her around the waist and yanked her into his lap. He no longer cared what people thought about them.

"Stop that," she murmured, kissing him, her lips warm against his. When he tried to pull her closer, she slipped out of his lap and onto a couch next to him.

Conversation swirled as people settled into seats or went to the bar. Ricki called someone over to give Del a drink, and soon he had a gin and tonic. He set it on the table by his chair.

"I don't see your point," Staver said. He was talking to one of the Prime-Nova execs, a man named Orin something. "So what if the Trader Empire has no Kyle technology. That doesn't make them any less despicable."

Del blinked. It was strange to hear an argument about the Traders here, in his protected circle of friends on Earth.

"How's the tour?" Ricki asked Del, sipping her drink.

"It's good," Del said, half his attention on her and half on the argument between Staver and the exec.

Ricki followed his gaze and grimaced as if she had taken a bite of a sour fruit. "They've been arguing all morning." She indicated the exec. "That's Orin Jenkins, from Acquisitions."

"From what?" Del asked.

"Acquisitions," she said. "Vid-bids. They find new talent. He's thinking of signing a Eubian band."

That felt like a blast of cold air. "You mean the Traders?"

"That's right. Did you know they call themselves the Eubian Concord? It's Skolians who say Traders, supposedly because the Eubians sell people." Ricki waved her glass at Staver. "He's pissed off."

It didn't surprise Del. He didn't want to be on the same planet as a Trader band.

"I don't know what the hell is 'Kyle technology,' " Orin was saying. "Some mumbo-jumbo about telepathy."

"Kyle space is just another universe," Staver said. "Except your thoughts determine where you are there. If you think about Pittsburg, then you're close to everyone else who's thinking about Pittsburg even if in our universe they're across the galaxy."

Orin snorted a laugh. "I think, therefore I move?" He looked across the suite at Ricki and winked. "If that were true, I wouldn't be here, Staver dear. I'd be over there on the couch."

"Sorry," Staver said dryly. "You don't go into Kyle space. Only your thoughts. You can think about her all you want, but you can't touch."

"Too bad," Orin said.

Del was simmering, but before he could tell Orin to go flip himself off, Ricki laid her hand on his arm. "Let it go, babe," she murmured. "He's just spouting."

He gritted his teeth, caught off guard by the intensity of his reaction. After all, she had to put up with those news holos of women kissing him at the Chicago concert. He needed to unsnarl his responses to her. He had thought he was incapable of anything except a casual love affair, but he was no longer the kid who could convince himself he didn't want more.

"I've heard about this Kyle space," Orin said. "But if you can't go into it, what's the point?"

"Think about it," Staver said. "If you talk to someone with a Kyle link, you're right next to them, even if in our universe you're on different planets. That's how we get instant communication across such huge distances. Our laws of physics don't apply there, so the speed of light has no meaning."

Orin shook his head. "Your Kyle space has no substance. No physical evidence."

"You want evidence?" Staver said. "Interstellar civilization as we know it wouldn't exist if we didn't have fast communications. We live a real-time existence. We could talk right now to someone in another star system if we had access to the Kyle-mesh. Imagine if it took months, years, even centuries to send a message."

"Starships carry messages," Orin said. "And they get around light speed. I don't understand the physics, but at least it can be demonstrated in the real world."

Mac spoke up. "The physics is pretty straightforward. You add an imaginary component to your speed. It gets rid of the singularity in the relativistic gamma function. Ships go around the speed of light by detouring into the complex plane."

Ricki made an exasperated noise. "Oh, well, that sounds so simple, Mac, I can't imagine why I didn't think of it myself."

Del laughed softly. "The Varento starship drive. It'll send you out of this world."

Her smile turned sultry. "You bet, babe."

"Sure, ships can carry messages," Staver told Orin. "That still takes time. You can't communicate instantaneously that way."

Orin raised his glass to Staver. "If this Kyle-mesh was so important, my people would have developed one, too."

Staver gave him an unimpressed look. "You can't."

"Sure we can." Orin finished his drink with one swallow.

"How?" Staver asked. He looked genuinely curious. "To use Kyle space, you need psions. To create, power, and maintain a mesh in Kyle space, you need Ruby psions. They're the only ones strong enough. It would fry anyone else's brain."

"Oh, come on," Orin said. "You believe this Ruby Dynasty has some magical power? They've really put one over on your people."

Del wanted to punch the exec. And what the hell did "put one over" mean? Mac was watching him from a nearby chair, a warning in his gaze. He wanted Del to stay out of the argument.

"The Ruby Dynasty are the strongest known psions," Staver said. "It's genetic, a recessive mutation that involves a whole slew of genes. Ruby psions have every one of those genes paired. Only them."

"Whatever," Orin said. "We'll make our own Ruby Dynasty."

Del would have laughed if that hadn't hurt so much. The Skolian Assembly had been trying for ages to make more Ruby psions. Never mind that they had almost destroyed Del's family in the process.

"It's not that easy," Staver said. "Attempts to create them in the lab don't work. You can't clone them, either. Our geneticists are still figuring out the why."

"I think you Skolians made this up," Orin said, "so you could all claim to have ultra powers."

Staver regarded him with exasperation. "We don't 'all' have anything. Ruby psions are practically extinct. The Ruby Dynasty are the only ones. Quite frankly, our government ought to lock them up. Keep them just to power the Kyle web."

Del's words burst out before he had time to think. "What, make them slaves to the government, is that it?"

Mac and Ricki both shot Del warning glances. Del didn't need his "practically extinct" powers to know it was because Mac didn't want him to reveal himself, and Ricki didn't want him to offend the person who had just bought the rights to distribute Del's music in an interstellar market.

"The Traders are the ones who keep slaves," Staver told Del curtly. "You Allieds have no idea. They put on that fake, shiny disguise, and you fall for it every time."

Del had forgotten Staver thought he was an Allied. It was so odd to hear his own thoughts reflected back to him, he forgot his anger. Curious, he said, "How would you prove it's false?"

Staver looked ready to do battle, but at Del's question he paused and spoke more calmly. "It's a good question. Taking an Allied delegation to the labs that train providers would work. Except of course the Aristos would never let that happen."

"Providers?" Orin finished off his whiskey. "What is that?"

"Sex slaves," Ricki purred.

Orin grinned at her. "What do you know about that?"

Del gritted his teeth until it hurt, distracting him from his urge to hit Orin. Beating up Prime-Nova execs would be stupid, but if the guy leered at Ricki one more time, Del couldn't swear he'd be responsible for his actions. And damn it, Ricki had baited Orin that time.

"You think it's sexy?" Staver demanded. "This is no game. Often it has nothing to do with sex. Aristos torture providers. For their entire lives. They don't care who they hurt, who they destroy, who they enslave. They think they're entitled to make people scream in agony."

Ricki's face paled. "That's sick."

Staver's voice sounded clenched. "Very, very sick."

"So how is making the Ruby Dynasty slaves to the Imperialate better?" Del demanded. "What the hell purpose would that serve?"

Staver looked uncomfortable. "We need the Rubies."

"Need what?" Del asked. "It takes only two people to create the Kyle-mesh. The Dyad. Two very protected people, along with their heirs, who are also protected, I'm sure by shields, implants, guards, and who knows what else. How is locking up the Ruby Dynasty going to solve anything?" He wanted to keep going, to shout his frustration and anger, but if he didn't stop now, he might say too much. Taking a breath, he fell quiet.

Staver spoke carefully, as if he finally realized that even here his words could have ramifications. "What if something happens to the Rubies? A lot of them died in the war, including the previous Imperator and her father, who were both in the Triad that powered the Kyle web. That's why we have a Dyad now. We have a new Imperator, but no one to take the father's place."

Del felt as if Staver had punched him in the gut. He was supposed to have taken his father's place. "They can't add a third person to the Dyad because they're afraid it will overload the powerlink and kill the two already in it." Realizing how that would sound, he added, "That's what I've heard." Even if they could risk adding a third Ruby, it couldn't be him; after the brain damage he had suffered in cryo, it would kill him to use his abilities at that high a level. If the Traders captured him, they couldn't use him to build their own Kyle web.

"Del, come on," Ricki said with an indulgent look. "I'm sure it's much more complicated." Her gaze was anything but indulgent; she was warning him off the argument.

Staver leaned forward. "It's easy for you here on Earth to criticize. The Skolian Imperialate protects you. But if we fall, you're next."

Del didn't miss the irony, that Staver's words were almost exactly what he had told Mac.

"You know," Mac said with a slight laugh, "this conversation is getting intense, don't you think?"

"I think we should drink to Del Arden." Ricki lifted her glass, and the gold liquid sparkled. "To the latest number one sensation from Prime-Nova!"

Everyone raised their glasses. Del lifted his, too, but he no longer felt like celebrating. He wanted to withdraw from his "party" and submerge in the bliss-node Casper had sold him. Half a million dollars, but it was worth it, not only for the release it gave him, but because it let him remake his life into anything he wanted. Right now he craved its welcoming embrace, for only that could banish the Trader nightmares Staver had laid bare.

"But why?" Del's mother asked. "Of all the things you could do with your life, why this?" She was standing by a window, her skin shimmering in the light of the two suns.

Seeing her stirred up so many painful memories, but also many Del treasured. So often he had watched her stand by the window that way, smiling with welcome, frowning with parental censure, beaming with motherly pride, or pensive when she was lost in thought, bathed by the light of the suns Valdor and Aldan.

The bliss-node could create a simulation as complex as a parent who approved of him, yet it had balked at something as simple as putting in two suns. It had informed Del that if the suns circled each other that closely, their gravitational forces would throw Lyshriol out of its orbit. I know that, Del had said. It's not a natural system. Astronomical engineers created it five thousand years ago. Yeah, someday we'll be in trouble if we don't learn to stop it, but for now, the system exists. The aggravating virt still objected, saying no one could move planets. He couldn't believe a mesh code was arguing with him. When he told it that no, the Ruby Empire did have that technology, but they lost it when the empire collapsed, the flaming node didn't believe him. At that point, Del had told it to just shut the hell up and make the blasted sim.

So today he spoke to his mother in the simulated sunlight of his home. "How can I explain what inspires me?" he asked her. "It's like trying to capture the mist. I only know I was meant to do this."

"I felt the same way when I was a ballet dancer," she said. "Your grandparents worried all the time."

"But they didn't stop you." He willed her to understand. To some extent, the node created its simulations using his memories and knowledge, and he was still learning how to influence the results. "I know my singing isn't as cultured. But it means as much to me as your dancing meant to you."

His mother sighed, glistening in the light. She looked like a work of art. But Del had always thought her beauty was more inside, the way she had sung him lullabies when he was small, tended his cuts and bruises, and stood up for him when his teachers claimed he "didn't apply himself."

He's doing his best, she had told them. He tries. But he really can't read. So they gave him tests. Test after test after test. And finally they said yes, his brain had neurological differences. He saw two hieroglyphs as different unless they were written exactly alike, with the same color, size, texture, even in the same place. Letters in languages with alphabets were even worse. They said sometimes he identified parts of himself with the images, so that when a letter changed, it forced him to change himself to identify it. He knew, logically, it was the same, but his mind wouldn't accept it. Both his brother Eldrin and his father had similar reactions to written language. Eldrin eventually learned to read, but neither Del nor his father had ever managed.

"You understood about my reading," Del said. "Can't you understand about this?"

"I don't know if I ever will," she said gently. "But I see what it means to you. Your creativity is a gift, and where it takes you, that's where you should go."

A sense of lightening came to Del, as if a weight lifted off him. He knew it was false, only a simulation tailored to make him happy, but it felt so real.

His voice caught. "You don't know what it means to me to hear you say that."

Her smile lit her face. "I'm glad. But you have to go."

"What?" His simulated people weren't supposed to kick him out of the virt.

"You set this session for three hours," she said. "It's up."

"Already?"

"Already." She raised her hand. "Be well." She faded and the world went black.

Del lifted off the helmet and stared around his hotel room. He had tears on his face. He felt ridiculous, crying over his fantasy world. Yet he wanted nothing more than to go back. In the virt, he could relive his life and do everything right. He would never take the tau-kickers, never go swimming that night, never seduce all those girls. Didn't any of his granite-headed family realize he would have agreed to marry Devon Majda? If he couldn't sing, at least he could have been the consort of an interstellar queen. He wouldn't have had to live with the crushing loneliness that only the taus kicked away. Who knew, maybe she would have even accepted his music.

Del rubbed his eyes. The console said it was four a.m. He peeled off the suit and stumbled to his bed. Sprawling on the floater, he sank into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

When the first kid climbed on the stage, Del almost tripped over him. He was singing "Rubies," spinning around, when suddenly Cameron appeared in front of him. Del jerked back, losing his place in the song as Cameron leaned over a youth who was staggering toward Del. The Marine literally picked up the fellow and dumped him back in the audience.

In the time it took Cameron to move one person, three others jumped on the stage and started to dance. Del kept singing as he tried to avoid the people gyrating around him. It was crazy, with the audience overflowing around the stage, everyone contorting, jumping, and twirling, their bodies flashing with holographic tattoos, glitter paint, and swirling washes of light.

Two security bots clanked out. Roughly humanoid in shape, with blue legs and white torsos, they vaguely resembled humans in jeans and shirts. Even as Cameron and the two bots hauled the dancers back into the audience, two girls climbed up and headed for Del. Still singing, he backed away from them, unsure what to do.

Cameron caught one of the girls, but he was so busy being gentle with the pretty waif that her buxom companion made it to Del and threw her arms around him. With a grin, he yanked her closer and kissed her right there. The audience shrieked, and their excitement spun higher.

As Del drew back, smiling at the girl, Cameron gently pulled her away. Del started to sing again as Cameron and the bots moved downstage, trying to keep the audience where they belonged.

Mac's tense voice sounded in Del's ear. "Get off the stage. This is getting out of hand."

Still singing, Del looked toward Mac, who was standing in the wings, and shook his head. When Mac swore at him, Del turned away, then bent down low and jumped high. The audience screamed their approval. Everything was overflowing, their reactions, his song, the emotions. It was gloriously out of control.

"Del, I mean it!" Mac shouted. "Get out of there."

As more people rushed the stage, discordant emotions fractured Del's euphoria. Anne and Jud wanted him to stop, but Randall liked the commotion. What hit Del hardest was Cameron's reaction. The stoic Marine, the giant who never got flustered, was scared for Del's safety.

Del jumped to the last word of the song and held the note, his signal that he was ready to finish. Jud crashed to a crescendo and Anne added her signature cymbal roll across the morphing plates of flexi-metal.

"You've all been great," Del shouted to the audience. He ran offstage as he always did at the end of a concert even though they had only done half their set. Anne and Jud sped off with him. Randall scowled, but then he stalked off as well. The audience shouted protests, and more people tried to climb on the stage, struggling with the security bots.

Jud stopped in front of Mac. "We have to get the equipment off," he said urgently, out of breath.

Mac nodded and spun around to the techs. "Go. The AIs can deactivate the instruments."

"No!" Randall yelled. "What's wrong with you all? They're getting into it. That's what we want."

Del agreed. He felt as if he had been cut off in the middle of a breath. He wanted to get back out there.

"Randall, look." Anne pointed to the far edge of the stage.

Following her gaze, Del felt the blood drain from his face. The stage was sagging under the weight of everyone clambering onto it. If they didn't get the audience, bots, and equipment off soon, they would all be caught in a collapse. People could be injured, even killed.

"You all go to the green room," Mac told the band. "I'll come down as soon as we have everything here secured."

"Hell, no," Jud said. "I'm not letting you send Bonnie out there while you coddle me." With that, he ran back onto the stage, toward the techs who were taking apart his morpher. Anne sped over to help with her drums and morph engine. Randall made an exasperated noise, but he strode after her.

Del started out. "I should help."

"Get back here," Mac said.

Del stiffened and kept going.

"Cameron, I need you here," Mac said into the audio-comm that both Cameron and Del wore.

Del stopped and turned with a jerk. "Mac, cut it out."

Cameron came up to Del, disheveled but calm.

"Take Del to the green room," Mac said. "If he protests, carry him."

"What!" Del stared at him in disbelief. When Cameron took his arm, he yanked it away, then whirled around and strode onto the stage. Cameron would leave him alone if they were in full view of the audience.

Or maybe not. Del had only gone a few paces when Cameron grabbed him from behind and hefted Del up, with one arm under Del's knees and the other behind his back.

"Put me down!" Del shouted at him.

"No." Cameron carried him off the stage.

"Well isn't that romantic?" Randall smirked as he walked past, his arms loaded with holoscreens.

"All right!" Del said. This was humiliating. "I'll go to the flaming green room. Just put me down."

"Thank you." Cameron set him on his feet.

"I can't believe this," Del growled. But he went.

" . . . we're too civilized to have a riot at a rock concert!" the man on the holo-cast asserted. "You might have seen that kind of behavior in a more barbaric age. But now? Never!"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Anne said to the holographic image of the news show. "A few people climbed on the stage. What's next? The fall of civilization!"

"Shhhh." Jud waved his hand at her. They were gathered around his mesh in Del's hotel room, listening to reviews of the concert. Except they were picking up a lot more than music critics. This time they had hit the major news outlets. Michael Laux on Atlantic City-Time Hour was interviewing Henry Flume, a supposed expert on modern culture.

"It was a mass trance," Flume said darkly. "This Del person corrupts everyone who listens to him."

"For flaming sake," Del said.

"A trance. That's certainly an interesting idea," Laux said. He turned toward the camera. "I'd like to introduce our other guest tonight, Orin Jenkins, Vice President of Acquisitions at Prime-Nova, the label that puts out Arden's music. Good evening, Mister Jenkins."

"Thank you, Michael." Orin sounded much more formal than in person. He looked formal, too; his sleek, snappy clothes were gone, replaced by a silver and blue suit.

"What do you think about this idea that Del Arden hypnotizes his audience?" Laux asked.

Orin laughed good-naturedly. "Believe me, if our performers could do that, we'd be marketing it full tilt."

"That figures," Del said. Leave it to Prime-Nova to see the marketing angle first.

"Mister Arden has a great talent," Orin said. "One might be tempted to suggest we haven't seen this reaction before because our 'civilized' acts aren't talented enough to cause it."

"Hey, listen to that," Anne told Del. "Someone at Prime-Nova actually acknowledged that you have something to do with your popularity, that it isn't all their star-making machine."

"That's a load of crock," Flume said. "That boy is singing depraved froth with a loud voice. He's a bad influence."

"Oh, puleeease," Randall said. "Can't he find anything less cliched than 'bad influence'?"

"Don't bang on it," Jud said. "The more people hear what a terrible influence Del is, the more they'll listen to our music."

"What do you want to bet," Bonnie said, "that Orin will get something in there about how sexy Del is."

"Naw, he wouldn't go that far," Randall said. "The censors wouldn't allow it."

"What is Arden doing that you see as a bad influence?" Laux asked Flume. He seemed genuinely perplexed.

"The way he moves on stage," Flume said. "One moment, his body language is telling the universe to go bleep itself. I won't defile your program by using the actual word. The next moment, he's telling all the women he will have intercourse with them."

Anne let out a hoot of laughter. "Hah! Orin didn't have to mention it. Flume did it for him."

"I do not move that way," Del said indignantly.

"Hell," Randall said. "If I knew what Flume meant, I'd move that way, too."

Orin didn't miss the opening. "If you're saying Del Arden is one of the most potent male sex symbols to hit the music scene in some time, I won't disagree there. But that's no crime."

"Hey," Del said, laughing. "Now I'm a potent sex symbol."

"Yeah, right." Randall threw a crumpled-up napkin at him. "I can hardly control myself."

"As opposed to what?" Jud asked. "An impotent sex symbol?"

Anne choked on the coffee she was drinking. Del just glared. He could imagine what his family would say to Orin's comment. Then again, maybe he didn't want to imagine it. They might laugh. Or his mother would give him another lecture on the discretion expected of his "station." He had once infuriated her when, as a teenager, he had told her he wasn't a mag-rail train stop.

"It's unhealthy," Flume was saying.

"Why?" Orin had that Prime-Nova We know so much more than you tone. Del usually hated it, but when it was being used in his defense instead of against him, he liked it just fine.

"Because it leads to what happened in Wyoming tonight," Flume retorted.

"Nothing ever happens in Wyoming," Jud drawled. "No wonder this is such a big story."

Wyoming? Del had lost track of where they were on the tour. Yes, they had been in Wyoming. Tomorrow they were going to California. He was exhausted from all the traveling.

Laux turned to face the holocam. "There you are, folks. You've heard from both experts. Register your vote on the City-Time Hot Handle. Vote 'yes' if you agree Del Arden is popular because of his talent and 'no' if you believe his popularity comes from unwholesome qualities."

"What kind of wonky choice is that?" Del scowled at the others. "Can't anyone on this planet do anything without voting on it?"

"It's called democracy," Randall said.

"No, it's not!" Del said. "Democracy is a political system. This is--I don't know what it is. What happens if people vote that I'm unwholesome?" For all he knew, Prime-Nova might decide he was too risky to keep on tour.

"The polls supposedly don't have influence," Anne said. "But if it goes against you, our backers might worry."

"Here." Jud brought up another holo, a room with two doors. He flicked a holicon, and the right-hand door opened.

"You've just voted yes for Del Arden!" a cheerful voice announced. "Do you have any comments to include with your vote?"

"I sure do." Jud spoke into the mesh comm. "This poll is silly. Everyone knows Arden is brilliant. Just because Flume finds him threatening doesn't mean the rest of us will let Flume destroy our music."

"You know they can track who said that," Randall said. "They'll figure out it came from Del's morpher."

"I don't care," Jud said. "It's true."

To Del's amazement, Bonnie, Anne, Randall, and even Cameron voted yes. Then Jud flicked a holicon and a graph of the poll results came up. It was 88 percent in favor of Del.

"Do you think it will stay that way?" Del asked.

"It's too soon to say." Anne studied the stats below the tally. "About one thousand people have voted so far. So our four votes couldn't be skewing the result."

"Did you notice the way they phrased it?" Bonnie asked. " 'Yes' came first, with a question almost guaranteed to make people agree. Of course Del has talent. The 'no' vote is second, with the unwholesome choice. Not yes/no on the unwholesome thing, but yes-talent and no-unwholesome. I think they set it up that way on purpose, to skew it in favor of Del."

"Huh." Del wondered why. "That's odd."

"Not really," Jud said. "Laux likes you."

"He hardly knows me."

"Yeah, but he brought you on his show when you were a nobody. Take my word; he likes you."

A chime came from the mesh. Jud flicked his hand through the respond holicon, and Mac's voice came out of the comm. "I'm on my way back from the stadium."

"Is everything okay?" Jud asked.

"It looks like the damage wasn't too bad," Mac said. "Some people got a few scrapes and bruises, but nothing worse than you all ended up with."

Not all of us, Del thought. He was still irked at Mac for refusing to let him help the others.

"What about the stage?" Jud asked.

"We'll have to pay for the damage," Mac said. "But all things considered, it could have been a lot worse." Then he said, "Del?"

Del leaned over the mesh. "Yes?"

"I want to talk to you. In private."

Del was aware of the others watching him, waiting for his response. He had told them they were all a team, not "Del and some other guys." Cameron looked uncomfortable.

"If you have something to say," Del said, "you can say it to all of us. And if you're going to tell me to stop touring, the answer is no."

"Damn it, Del!" Mac added some other choice words under his breath. "You're going to give me heart failure."

"No one was hurt. You said so yourself." Del smiled. "Actually, it was sort of fun. Why do all those women want to kiss me?"

"For crying out loud," Mac said. "I'll see you all in a few minutes. Good-bye!" With that, he cut the connection.

"I knew he'd be upset," Jud said. "But why would he want us to stop touring?"

Randall considered Del. "That's a good question. In fact, I've never seen a personal manager with so little desire to see his client succeed."

"That's not true," Del said.

"You have to admit," Anne said, "he's too protective."

"I'm Prime-Nova's investment," Del said. "They don't want me damaged."

"No one is that concerned about the rest of us," Anne said. She didn't sound angry, more puzzled.

"We're not important enough," Randall snapped. There was no mistaking his anger. "We can be replaced."

"No, you can't." Del looked around at them. "It isn't just me up there, it's the four of us, and Bonnie and Cameron. We're doing this together. Without you, I'm nothing."

Randall opened his mouth, then closed it again. While they waited, he took a breath. Then he said, "Del, I know I get testy. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to playing second in a band. But this all means as much to me as it does to the others."

Del hadn't expected that. He spoke quietly. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

He just wished Mac would appreciate his success more.

Staver invited Del to Muir Woods in California. The forest took Del's breath away. Lyshriol had no trees; the plants in the "woods" there were glasslike tubes and bubbles, all in gem colors that evoked the stained glass windows in cathedrals he had visited on Earth. But even after seeing trees in Maryland and other places, he wasn't prepared for the redwoods. They were huge. Magnificent. Centuries old. Just walking under them was incredible. A deep calm spread through him.

"I didn't know anything like this could exist," Del said.

"You've never visited here?" Staver asked.

"I didn't grow up on Earth," Del said. "I come from one of the rediscovered Ruby colonies. Earth just found us first."

"I had wondered," Staver said. "You have more interest in Skolian affairs than most Allied citizens."

"We hear a lot." In the serenity of the woods, Del felt more relaxed than he had in ages, except when he used his bliss-node. He eased down his mental barriers, curious about Staver--

And recoiled fast. But it was too late.

Staver raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm an empath."

"You knew? About me?"

"I wasn't certain until just now," Staver said. "But yes, I suspected the first time I saw you in concert."

"Oh." Del wondered how many other people had guessed. "I don't usually tell people." He rebuilt his shields to protect his mind even better than before.

"Nor do I," Staver said quietly.

They walked on, silent beneath the ancient trees. Even though Del hardly knew Staver, he didn't feel the nervous compulsion to talk that usually came when he interacted with someone who could affect his career. He had never needed to have such conversations before, and he didn't know how. Here under the redwoods, though, his stress trickled away.

After a while, Del said, "Did you mean that about the Skolian government locking up the Ruby Dynasty?" He kept his shields up so no hint about his identity would leak to Staver.

"I suppose not." The older man exhaled. "Of course you're right, it would make us no better than the Traders. And we just need two or three Ruby psions to power the Kyle web. But you don't realize how few of them there are. Only seven, I think."

"Twelve," Del said absently. People often miscounted the number of people in his family because no one really knew anything about him or those of his siblings who had never left Lyshriol.

Staver gave a wry laugh. "You're optimistic."

With a start, Del realized what he had said. Damn! He would have to be more careful. "Maybe it's wishful thinking."

"Why?" Staver asked curiously. "Why would you care if there were more of them?"

"I guess just the idea of psions having a larger community."

"I doubt it matters to them."

You have no idea. Del wondered if Staver could understand what it was like never to find a person outside your family you could fully share your love with. Staver could find other empaths; they were rare, but not one in a trillion. A Ruby could love someone who wasn't a Ruby, but they could never have the full link, two people become one, that miraculous bond Del's mother had known with his father--and lost the night his father died. Del had shared his mind with his twin sister from before their birth, but he had died and she had lived, and now they were no longer twins. Their connection had weakened.

"Do you remember what you said about the Trader Aristos the other night?" Del asked.

Staver met his gaze. "I meant every word."

"It almost sounds personal for you."

It was a moment before Staver answered. "Five years ago, their raiders kidnapped someone I knew and sold her as a provider."

No wonder he was angry. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Staver asked. "So many of your people either don't understand or don't care."

Del decided to reveal just a bit. "A Highton Aristo nearly killed my father. He escaped, but he was never the same."

"Gods," Staver said. "I didn't expect that."

Del stepped over a fallen log covered with moss, deep green beneath the high canopy of the forest. "It isn't something we talk about." Such simple words for a pain that went so deep.

"I understand." After a moment, Staver said, "I admit, my idea of locking up the Ruby Dynasty wouldn't solve anything. It's what you Allieds call a 'knee-jerk reaction.' But what would you do to protect empaths against the Aristos?"

Del thought of his mother, her eyes blank after the Traders had fried her brain. "Exterminate them," he said flatly. "Every last one. All two-however-many thousand."

"That's strong medicine from an Allied citizen."

Del shook his head, unable to explain. "They're too powerful. It seems hopeless that we'll ever be free of their brutality. I just wish I could do something."

"Aye," Staver murmured. "We'd all like to."

Del lowered his mental shields carefully this time, using more nuance so Staver wouldn't detect him. Staver's mood was difficult to read, but his wariness came through. He wondered if he should trust Del. Something to do with . . . what? Providers.

It hit Del in a flash, partly insight and partly empathy. Staver wasn't here just to find Allied talent. His job served as a cover for a very illegal project--he helped providers escape from the Traders, routing their path through Allied territory because it drew less attention.

Del pulled Staver to a stop. "I want to help."

Staver looked at Del's hand on his arm, then at Del. "Excuse me?" He pulled away his arm.

"Whatever you're doing, I want to help."

"What exactly am I 'doing'?"

"You're helping providers," Del said. "Getting them out of there."

Staver snorted. "You've an active imagination, young man."

Del couldn't just let it go. This was too important. "All right. You aren't doing anything. But if the anything you aren't doing needs financing, come to me."

Staver spoke kindly. "We all want to do something, son. It's frustrating to feel helpless against their tyranny. But we can't take on the Trader Empire. We're mice running at a huge monolith." He laid his hand on Del's shoulder. "I appreciate the thought, though."

Del frowned at him. "Right." He didn't believe for one moment that Staver didn't know what he was talking about.

Del turned over and stretched his arms. He was so drowsy, half awake and relaxed. His bed felt hard, though.

After a while, he opened his eyes. A woman was seated in a chair next to him, reading a holo-book. A braid hung over her shoulder, brown streaked with grey. She had a round face with laugh lines around her eyes, and she wore a blue shift. She was so unlike the glossy types that surrounded him lately, he wondered why she hadn't stood out more among his guests.

Except . . . what guests? He hadn't been at a party. He and Staver had gone to a cafe in a place called Sausalito. They had drunk herbal tea, whatever that meant.

Del's mind wandered, unable to focus. Cameron had once told him that people cooked with herbs. Anne claimed they were medical. Del had asked Randall, who told him "herbs prickled," a comment Randall clearly found hilarious. He told Del to go smoke and have fun. Frustrated, Del had consulted Claude, his EI. After some discussion, they figured out Randall meant "prickle" as in grass, an archaic term for marijuana, and also a play on a word referring to a certain part of the male anatomy. Smoke and have fun indeed. Del doubted he had been drinking marijuana tea, but who knew. He remembered zilch about whatever had happened afterward.

He was lying on his back on a stone ledge that jutted out from the wall. A smart-blanket warmed his body.

"Hello?" Del asked.

The woman looked up from her holobook. "Hello."

"Who are you?" Del was surprised how tired he sounded.

"My name is Lydia." She turned off her book. "Are you feeling better?"

"I got sick?" Damn. Maybe he had a reaction to the tea. He didn't remember pain, though, and he wasn't dead. At least, he hoped not. This would be a weird afterlife.

"You passed out." She leaned forward and smoothed his hair out of his eyes. "It's amazing. You really look this way."

"What way?" he asked.

"Like Del Arden."

"What an astonishing coincidence," Del said groggily.

She smiled. "I mean, the vids don't enhance your looks."

"Oh." He thought of asking her why would he bother, then changed his mind. Of course Prime-Nova would bother.

"Where's Staver?" Del asked.

"He'll be back." Lydia tilted her head. "Is that your real name? Del Arden?"

"Well, yeah. It's not a pseudonym." With horror, Del felt more words forming: My full name is Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria Skolia. He barely stopped himself, and holding back was a struggle. What was wrong with him?

"Staver said you're from a Skolian world," she said.

"Rediscovered world. A stranded Ruby Empire colony."

"Until the Skolians found you."

"Not Skolians," Del mumbled. "Earth. Texans, to be precise."

"Texans!" She chuckled. "What a combination. The ancient, enigmatic Ruby Empire collides with the Lone Star State."

"With the what?"

"Don't worry," she murmured. "It's not important."

Yeah, right. He was starting to see what was going on. Staver had drugged him with a truth serum. It wouldn't work, though. Imperial Space Command had given everyone in Del's family training to deal with interrogation. His siblings in the military even had specialized neurotransmitters in their brains that blocked them from answering certain questions under stress. But gods, what if Staver had given him something his body couldn't handle? Although as far as Del knew, his body wouldn't have a fatal reactions to a truth serum, it wasn't anything he wanted to test.

He had a good guess why Staver gave him a serum. However abhorrent free humanity might find the Aristo practice of keeping providers, it was legal among the Traders. What Staver and his group were doing was illegal on an interstellar scale. They could go to prison for a long time if the Allied authorities caught them. If the Traders caught them, they would be executed, except anyone like Staver who had more value as a provider. Del didn't doubt Staver would prefer the death penalty to a lifetime of slavery and torture.

Of course they wanted to know why Del had offered to help. Nor did he blame them for taking precautions. If they hadn't, he wouldn't trust the security of their organization. But he still didn't like being drugged.

"Del?" Lydia asked. "Are you there?"

"What?" He tried to focus. "Yeah, I'm here."

"You were telling me about your home."

"I was?"

"That it was one of the ancient colonies."

"Oh. Well, yeah. But that's boring." He tried to sit up, then sighed and lay down. His vision blurred.

"You'll feel better in a while," she said.

"I hope so."

"Staver told me your family had a run-in with the Traders."

"My father." Before Del could stop, he said, "And my mother."

She went very still. "What happened?"

The words hurt like broken glass. "An Aristo came to our world. He caught my father. My father tried to escape." The words wrenched out. "He was climbing a cliff. The Aristo shot it. It came down on my father. Pulverized his legs. Blinded him. The Aristo kept him like that for days, barely alive, with no treatment. Nothing for the pain." His voice cracked. "My brother Shannon rescued him."

"My God," Lydia said. "Did your father survive?"

"Yes. He--yes. Shannon killed the Aristo." The words tore out of him as if they were ripping his insides. "In retaliation, the Aristo's children kidnapped my mother. Our military eventually pulled her out, but--" He struggled to hold back the soul-parching words. "It took my parents a long time to recover."

"I'm terribly sorry," she said in a soft voice.

Del spoke unevenly. "In the meantime, I took care of the house, the farm, my father's duties as the Dalvador Bard."

Her brow furrowed. "Did you say a bard?"

The words, The King of Skyfall hovered on his lips, a specious title the popular media had given his father. But he managed to say only, "He was a historian for our village. They're called bards."

"He's lucky he had you to look after things."

The painful words kept tearing out of him. "After my parents recovered, I took one of the only offworld trips I've ever done. A vacation. I went to Metropoli. And I died there. Great get-well present, Mother and Father. Your idiot son killed himself."

Silence followed his words. Then Lydia said, "You did what?"

"I had a lethal reaction to a drug." Del didn't want to open his eyes and look into her confused face.

"But you're alive."

"They put me in a cryogenic womb."

"Until they could revive you?"

"Yeah, until whenever that happened."

Lydia exhaled. "No one should have to go through all that."

He finally looked at her, accusing with his gaze. "And I never tell that to anyone. What did you do to me?"

She stroked his head, her touch soothing. "It's nothing."

He shoved away her hand. "Like hell it isn't. You just ripped out very private pieces of my life."

A man walked out of the shadows behind Lydia. Staver. "We had to be sure," he said. "We gave you teracore."

Del recognized the name. "A truth drug."

"That's right." Staver took a chair by the wall, brought it over, and sat in it backward, resting his arms on the top. "That sounds horrific, what your family went through."

"Shannon was only fourteen," Del said. "He had never hurt anyone in his life. But he killed the Aristo."

"Tell me about him," Staver said.

"I don't want to."

"Why?" Staver asked. "Does he have something to hide?"

"Of course not," Del said, irritated. "He was gentle. I didn't think he was even capable of rage. But he found our father." He exhaled. "My little brother committed murder that night."

Staver stared at him. "How could a boy kill such a powerful lord?"

Del really, really didn't want to talk. But he couldn't stop. "The Aristo couldn't bring in weapons or shields without alerting our defenses. He barely got himself in." His voice hardened. "Vitrex didn't reckon with the fury of a boy who saw his father crushed."

"Vitrex?" Staver asked.

"The Aristo."

"How did he know your world had empaths?"

"Well, that's the priceless question everyone wants answered, isn't it?" Del said bitterly. Everyone in three empires knew the Ruby Dynasty lived on Skyfall. Exactly how Vitrex had infiltrated their defenses, they didn't know. Shannon had killed him before they could find out.

"Del?" Staver asked. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Del sat up slowly, his head swimming and his sight blurred. "Don't ask me any more. It hurts too much." He swung his legs over the edge of the ledge and regarded Staver. "Do you believe me now? I want to help you."

"I have no idea why you think we're doing anything that would require help," Staver said.

"Why would you have drugged me otherwise?" Then Del said, "And it was in your mind."

Staver shook his head. "You couldn't have probed my mind without my knowing. I'm an eight point four on the Kyle scale."

His confidence didn't surprise Del. That was a phenomenal rating. It meant Staver was such a powerful empath, he was rarer than one in a hundred million people. The scale didn't even go up much past ten, or one in ten billion.

"That's impressive," Del said--and dropped his shields, not slightly as he had done in the forest, but all the way. Then he politely "knocked" at Staver's mind. Hello.

Staver's eyes widened. Gods, man!

Del raised his shields again. He had made his point.

"That was incredible," Staver said.

Lydia looked from Del to Staver. "What just happened?"

Staver exhaled. "A tidal wave hit me and said, 'Hello.' "

"I didn't hear anything," she said.

"Are you a psion?" Del asked. When she shook her head, he spoke with an openness that didn't come naturally to him. "Staver reacted that way because he's such a strong psion. So we could set up a two-way link. But it's difficult to maintain that kind of mental intensity with another person even for short periods of time."

Lydia didn't look surprised, which made Del suspect she was used to working with psions.

"What is your Kyle rating?" Staver asked him.

"I'm not sure," Del said. Which was true. It was impossible to measure ratings for the Ruby Dynasty. The sum total of all humanity wasn't enough to determine how many Ruby psions occurred naturally in human populations. His family had ratings higher than fourteen, which meant they were rarer than one in one hundred trillion, and all humanity numbered no more than several trillion. The only reason more Rubies existed was because the Assembly had deliberately bred them, heirs and spares to keep the Kyle-mesh powered.

Del only said, "My rating is above nine."

"It doesn't surprise me." Staver considered him. "Suppose, for the sake of argument, we could help providers. Why would you join us? You know what would happen if the Traders caught you."

"I wouldn't go into their space. But I can offer you financial help." Del's gaze never wavered. "In the millions." For something like this, if Staver checked out, Del would gladly use his dynastic accounts.

Lydia's mouth opened. Then she caught herself and closed it. Staver had more success in acting impassive, but his astonishment trickled past even his formidable shields. What Del had offered didn't come their way often. To put it mildly.

"I wish we were helping providers," Staver said. "That we had this sort of 'underground railroad.' Except we are talking about escape across the stars. The Star Road, eh? If we had one, your offer would have been much appreciated."

Del waited. When Staver had nothing more to add, he almost said, That's it? They put him through all this for nothing? But he bit back the words. They were being careful.

Staver stood up. "Are you steadier?"

"Sure." Del rose to his feet. He had thought his vision was still blurred, but he felt all right. The room was just dark.

"We should get back to San Francisco," Staver said.

Del would have insisted on an antidote, except he didn't want to risk taking unfamiliar drugs twice in one day. Instead he frowned at Staver. "I shouldn't go anywhere with people. I might spill all sorts of embarrassing stuff the next time someone asks how I feel about being Prime-Nova's pretty boy."

Staver smiled. "The teracore should wear off in about thirty minutes. It will take longer than that for us to get back if we take the scenic drive up the coast."

Scenic indeed. Staver wanted to extract more information from him. Del had to admit, though, the view from that cliff-side road was spectacular. He had never seen an ocean so close before. It astonished him that humans had once taken vessels of wood, metal, and canvas out on that endless water. Starships seemed safe in comparison.

So he went with Staver and struggled to be patient. If they wanted his help, they would contact him.

The New Filmore didn't seem new to Del; the building was at least sixty years old. Mac told him it had been built on the site of something called Filmore West, so "new" came from that. Regardless, the acoustics were a dream, and his voice filled the place. The audience liked him from the moment he came on, after a warm-up from a local band. People filled seats and thronged the floor, dancing or standing, with girls sitting on the shoulders of their boyfriends so they could see over the crowd.

"It's great to be here in San Francisco!" Del called out. The audience shouted their agreement. Randall was morphing his guitar, coaxing out waves of music. Anne had turned on the echo engine for her drums, creating a resonance that gave them an incredible, rich, powerful sound. Jud sat in the center of his morpher like a fighter pilot in a cockpit.

Jud glanced at him with a questioning gaze. Del knew what he wanted to do. "Carnelians." Del never intended to perform it in public. But tonight he did sing "Starlight Child":

When the forever snows
Tightened their embrace
While my dreaming thoughts froze
You rose with newborn grace

Nothing ever will compare
Nothing ever will come close
Your eyes, your skin, your shining hair
Starlight child, my heart knows

He moved around less than usual because the song was more difficult than his others. The words were birds taking flight, soaring out of him with joy and pain, rising into the crystalline night of Earth until they found their way to the glittering stars.

XV: The Perfect Virt

The Los Angeles Coliseum was the largest indoor venue Del had played, and tonight people swarmed the place. The crowd poured into the lot behind the Coliseum as the band's hover-van pulled up.

"Are you sure the security guys will meet us?" Del asked for the third time. "They didn't in Chicago."

Mac was sitting across from him in the circular seat. "They'll be there."

"We should have used the underground tunnels," Del said uneasily.

"I thought you wanted to see your fans," Randall called from a seat up front.

Del felt trapped. "I didn't know it would be so many people."

Jud looked up with a start as the van jerked. "What the hell was that?"

The craft settled on the ground, and its turbines powered down.

"Van, why are you stopping?" Mac asked.

"If I keep going," it said, "I could injure someone out there."

"I'm glad we sent the instruments earlier," Anne said. They had learned their lesson at the Chicago Sports Fields.

Del stood up. "Let's just get it over with."

"I dunno," Randall drawled. "Could be rough out there. All those women might want to kiss you."

"Ha, ha," Del said. Although he did want to connect with his audience, it was no longer flattering when people pulled at his clothes, his hair, his body. Sometimes it had sexual overtones, especially with women, but often people just wanted to touch him. Maybe it all had subliminal sexual messages; he didn't know. He just wished it would stop.

The Coliseum was a mammoth circular structure that filled a city block and towered above them. Holos morphed up and down its sides, splashes of color mixed with giant images of Del's face, of Del leaping in the air, of Del shouting into the mike. Too much Del. He wanted to escape himself.

As Cameron opened the van, people surged forward. Four guards stepped out of the crowd, armor glinting, faces hidden by helmets. When Del and the band jumped down, the guards formed a bulwark around them. Their armor reflected faces from the crowd: a girl calling, a man tossing a crumpled paper, a youth craning to see. People pressed in, and the guards held them off as they escorted Del and the band forward. They couldn't stop every touch, not without getting rough, which would defeat the whole point of "meeting fans." A hand slid through Del's hair, another person brushed his lips, a third scraped his legs. He pushed away someone pulling his belt, undoing it. Someone else shoved a guard and knocked him against Del. The guard grabbed Del's arm, holding him up.

"This is too much," Del said under his breath.

"No kidding," Jud muttered next to him, pushing a dreadlock out of his eyes.

Then they were under the overhang of the Coliseum, in its shadow, the entrance looming before them. An airlock membrane slid across Del's skin as he went inside. The last guard stepped through behind him and flicked his gauntleted hand across his belt. The air shimmered, and when Del turned around, he saw the crowd pressing forward against an invisible barrier.

Del set his palms against the barrier while he looked out at the people. They stared back as if he were an exotic creature they had trapped. Then a girl at the front smiled shyly. Like the release of gas through a valve, Del's tension flowed away. He smiled at her and waved. A ripple of approval went through the crowd as people waved back at him.

"You all right?" one of his guards asked.

Del looked up. The giant had taken off his helmet, revealing a man with a rugged face and sandy hair.

"Yeah, sure," Del said, trying not to sound shaky. "Sure. I'm fine."

Submerged within ghostly holos that rippled throughout the giant Coliseum, Del crooned into his mike:

No answers live in here alone
No answers on this spectral throne
Nothing in this vault of fears
This sterling vault, chamber of tears

But his tears had never been steel, for he was vulnerable in a way his sterling vault would never know:

Tell me now before I fall
Release from this velvet pall
Tell me now before I fall
Take me now, break through my wall

No answers will salvage time
No answers in this tomb sublime
This winnowing crypt intertwined
This crypt whispering in vines

He sang, mourning the time he had lost in cryogenesis, in his life, in his soul, but he sang also with joy for his rebirth:

No answers could bring me life
Yet when I opened my eyes
Beyond the sleeping crystal dome
Beyond it all, I had come home

The audience listened and danced and tried to climb on the stage, but Del didn't think anyone really understood the song. Who among them had lost nearly half a century of his life while the universe went on without them? He had no answers because there were none. It had just happened.

Death had called his name, but by a fluke of luck, he had escaped its summons. Cryo had kept him alive, and if that rebirth had been a form of hell, at least he had survived. He had no answers for why he should have survived, but gods willing, maybe he would live long enough to find at least one.

After the concert, Del helped the stage crew take down the light amplifiers. Why, he didn't know; he was no tech or light expert. But he liked the manual labor. Princes weren't supposed to, but he was more farm boy than royalty. So he did whatever tasks the bemused techs gave him. When they finished, he walked back to the green room with Cameron at his side, his bodyguard silent, respecting his need for the privacy of his own thoughts.

The band had left a hover-car so Cameron could drive Del to the hotel. Mac surprised Del by approving of his staying late. He considered it even better than sneaking Del out of the Coliseum. People would believe Del was long gone, probably to a party, which was what everyone seemed to think he did all the time. What he really wanted was his bliss-node. He needed to untangle his mind.

Del had spent most of the night since the concert lost in thought. He kept wondering if he should talk to his family. He just didn't know what to say. Look at me. He had achieved his heart's goal, to have his music accepted. And it felt wonderful. But when he thought of telling them, it seemed trivial. They were making history, literally changing how humanity existed among the stars. And what did he do for a living? He yelled into a mike he didn't even really need.

As the Imperator, his brother Kelric was the greatest defense the Imperialate had against the Traders. For all that Del found it humiliating to have the "little" brother he had once babysat treat him as a defiant youth, he knew perfectly well Kelric offered far more to their people than Del would ever have to give.

Del longed to do something his mother admired. He wanted her to be proud of him. He knew she loved him, but he also felt her disappointment. Maybe it hit her so hard because he had turned away from the life of the Dalvador Bard, which had defined his father.

For the past year, since the Allieds had taken Del away from Lyshriol, no one had acted as Bard. Del was supposed to ask one of his brothers to do it, but he considered Chaniece a better choice. She was the best singer of their siblings still on Lyshriol, and she enjoyed the Dalvador music. She also served as guardian of the Valdoria estate and lands, and she had no desire to leave them, which was perfect for the Bard.

Del knew his family wanted him to assume the title. He had acted as Bard those first months after his father's death. He wished he could bear the thought of going home and carrying on his father's legacy. But if he forced himself to kill his dreams, he would die from a starvation of the spirit.

The voices of two women floated from behind a curtain by the stage, interrupting his thoughts.

"--don't see why everyone thinks he's so cute," one said. "He's not."

"I think he is," the other said. "I've always liked guys with brown hair. And he has a nice nose."

Del smiled, wondering if the subject of their attention knew he had a nice nose.

The first woman snorted. "He looks like a girl."

"What, a guy has to be Mister Blocky Chin to turn you on?" the other said, laughing. "I like his pretty face."

Del was about to joke to Cameron about the poor fellow under discussion when the first woman said, "That would make a great ad. Del Arden, the prettiest man in rock."

Del stopped smiling. Pretty? Pretty? He was not pretty.

Cameron laughed at his side. "Don't take it so personally. Not everyone has the same tastes."

Del glared at him. "Flowers are pretty. Not men. And my hair is red."

A woman came around the curve of the hallway. Startled, Del stopped stock-still, blocking the way. She was blond and buxom, dressed in a lacy pink dress that clung to her voluptuous curves. She looked like a younger version of Ricki. He didn't recognize her from any crew, and she shouldn't be here otherwise, but he doubted he had met every stagehand.

The girl smiled at Del. Remembering what the other woman had said about his masculinity, or supposed lack of it, he just tensed. Maybe this one thought he was too pretty, too.

"Hello." She sounded uncertain. "Is something wrong?"

Del mentally shook himself. "No! Not at all." He flashed his best smile. His best masculine smile. "I was trying to figure out why I hadn't seen you. Because I know I'd remember."

"I remember you," she said softly. "You sing like an angel."

"I've no halo, believe me," he said. He wished Cameron would go away.

"Oh, it's there," she teased. "A little tarnished. They're more interesting that way, don't you think?"

Del couldn't help but laugh. "What's your name, mystery girl?"

"Delilah."

"Are you on the stage crew, Delilah?" Gods, she was sexy in that flimsy lace. "Taking apart sets is a dull business."

She pursed her mouth. "Did you have something else in mind?"

Del knew he should say no. He thought of Ricki. Then he thought of waking up alone and how it hurt so damn much. She wouldn't talk to him about it. He questioned whether she would ever let him close enough to understand. He wasn't certain they even had a relationship.

"Well, I don't know--" Del started to say.

The girl stepped closer. "You don't?"

Del met her gaze and thought, Why the hell not? He was lonely, and she was lovely and willing. But gods, he was tired of Cameron knowing his private moments. He had to get rid of the Marine.

"Meet me here in half an hour," Del murmured.

"If you're not afraid to come back," Delilah said.

He smiled at her. "Come back, and I'll show you."

Her lashes lowered seductively over her eyes. "Promises, promises." Then she sashayed on, down the hall.

Del watched her go, her hips swaying, her long legs round and firm. Letting out a breath, he headed the other way, wondering how he would ditch Cameron.

It took Del too long to give Cameron the slip. When he finally returned to where he had asked Delilah to meet him, she was gone. Oh, well. Maybe she wouldn't have liked him anyway.

A rustle came from a side hall. Puzzled, Del went over and looked down it. Someone in a pink dress was going around a distant corner. It was hard to see because it was dark except for a spillover from this hallway.

"Delilah?" Del went down the hall. At the junction where it turned left, he stared down a new corridor. It was even darker, but he thought he saw a woman in a pink dress.

He followed her into the shadows. "Hey Delilah, is that you?"

Darkness closed around Del. He couldn't imagine why Delilah would go down here. He was about to turn back when someone grasped his arm from behind and swung him toward the wall.

"Hey." Del tried to pull away. "Cut that--"

He grunted as someone hit him across the back, knocking him into the wall. He barely turned his head fast enough to keep his nose from cracking against the concrete. A nozzle pressed his neck and a hiss whined in his ear.

"Don't!" He tried to turn, but someone large held him in place. A stink of sweat made him gag. His legs buckled and he slid down the wall, his palms dragging along it.

"You're such sweet mischief," a woman scolded nearby.

The world turned black.

Del lay on his back, swimming into consciousness, saturated with pleasure. Ricki had never gone down on him like this before. He wanted it to go on forever.

A sour note intruded into his bliss. Ricki couldn't be here. She had walked out on him after he had bared his heart to her. Hadn't he been at the Coliseum . . .

Del cracked open his eyes. Dizziness hit him even though he hadn't moved, and his vision blurred the way it did when he was drilled. He tried to think through what had happened, but his mind was sluggish, and blurred with pleasure.

He was lying in a dimly lit room on a mattress on the floor. Someone had opened his shirt, baring his chest. She had unfastened his pants, too, and her blond head moved up and down as she pleasured him, her hands cupping him underneath while her tongue did its wonders. It was Delilah, not Ricki.

Confusion washed over him. He should tell her to stop. But ah, gods, he never wanted it to end. Maybe this was her inspired way of apologizing for whoever had hit him. Had to find out . . . what was going on . . . he sank into the haze of lust. All too soon, it turned into an ecstasy that burst over him. With a groan, he lifted his hips and thrust deeper into her mouth. As he spent himself, he collapsed back, and dizziness swept him into sleep.

Del rose to consciousness like a swimmer through the ocean. It took a while, but gradually his thoughts formed. Someone had whacked him and shot him with an air syringe.

He lifted his head. "Delilah?" His voice rasped.

She was lying between his legs, her head resting on his thigh, her eyes closed, one hand under her cheek, the other resting on his other thigh. His vision went double for a moment, creating two Delilahs.

"Come here, sweetheart," Del murmured. Despite the bizarre situation, he felt a rush of affection for this woman who had given him such pleasure. And she hadn't left him to wake up alone.

She lifted her head, her face framed by silky blond hair. "Hi," she said softly.

Del reached for her, and just that slight amount made his head swim. She slid up his body, into his embrace, and he sank onto his back with his arms around her. She stretched out against him, her arm across his chest, and her leg tangled with his, wearing nothing except lace panties and a soft little top that felt as if it would fall apart under his hands.

Del stroked her breasts. "What happened in that hallway?"

"Darkman hit you."

"Is he your man?" It wouldn't be the first time a girl had come on to him and an angry boyfriend showed up to retaliate.

"He thinks so." She snuggled against him. "You're my man."

Del wasn't, but he did like her. He kissed the top of her head. "How did you get rid of that fellow?"

"I didn't."

He lifted his head with a jerk. "You mean he might come back?"

She watched him with her eyes half closed. "He never left."

What the hell? Del looked around, struggling to focus. "I don't see anyone."

"He's the other room, running the holo-cam."

"What?" He sat up, pushing her away, and groaned. His stomach felt as if it were about to heave up. "He's recording us?"

"Of course."

"No!" Del fastened his pants, though his fingers seemed too thick and clumsy to work properly. "You can't do that!"

She rolled languorously onto her side. "You can't go."

When he tried to stand up, his dizziness surged and he barely made it halfway to his feet before he lost his balance and fell onto his knees next to Delilah.

"There, there." She stroked his arm. "Don't get upset."

"Stop it," Del said. "What did you give me?"

"Just spikers and tranquilizers. Enjoy it."

"You can't give me drugs! It could kill me."

"Don't be silly. You'll have fun."

"No!" Using the wall for support, he tried again, and this time he made it to his feet. He sagged against the rough surface while nausea rolled over him.

The room had no door. No furniture. Nothing except the mattress and a mechanized commode against one wall. Del stumbled to it and fell onto his knees. Leaning over the bowl, he vomited as if his insides were tearing out.

"That's disgusting," Delilah said behind him. "That won't give us good material for the virt."

Del wiped his mouth on a paper-mesh towel that left a sour taste as it delivered enough soap to clean his mouth. He dumped it in the commode and watched it swirl away. "Who are you people?"

"I told you." She stood above him. "I'm Delilah. My friend is Darkman. You're our guest." Then she added, "For a while."

Del climbed to his feet. "You have to let me go."

Delilah took his wrist, but it wasn't in affection. She looked revolted. She held up his hand as if it were an accusation. "You're deformed."

"What? No, I'm not."

"Imperfect." She touched the hinge and her voice turned ugly. "When I first saw this in one of your live concerts, I felt sick. I don't like imperfection."

Del jerked his hand away from her.

With no warning, lights flared. Squinting against the glare, he peered across the room. A man was coming inside, but the light obscured any molecular airlock that might have appeared, and Del could barely make him out. He tensed into a mai-quinjo stance, preparing to defend himself, though he had never used the martial arts in self-defense, only as exercise--

Then the guy came forward, out of the light, and Del's stomach felt as if it dropped through the floor. The man held a giant Viper-IV laser carbine gripped in both hands.

"I think you should leave her alone," the man said.

Del lowered his hands, moving slowly. "Yeah. Whatever you want." The guy wore dark clothes, but he had spiky yellow hair and a blue laser-lit tattoo on his cheek. "You're Darkman?"

"Delilah calls me that." An edge grated in his voice. "You can call me Raker."

"Don't make a virt of me," Del said. Given that Raker had the gun, he could do what he wanted, but Del had to try.

Raker smiled, and it wasn't pretty. "Virts of you are floating all over the planet." He walked forward, his monster gun glinting. "All those cheap, unimaginative replicas of The Jewels Suite."

"Uh, sure, yeah." Sweat beaded Del's forehead. "Unimaginative." He felt sick.

Raker stopped next to Delilah, looming over her, huge and muscled. Del felt small.

"People will look for me," Del said. "A lot of them." Except he had tricked Cameron. It could be hours before anyone knew he had disappeared.

"They won't find you," Raker said. In a deathly calm voice, he added, "I used to be a mech wizard for a conglomerate bigger than your little Prime-Nova. Our security force was better than special ops in Allied Space Command. I know all the tricks."

Del pressed his hand against his stomach, willing it to settle. He stared at the gun, then lifted his gaze to Raker. "What do you want with me?"

"I have to do this," Raker said. "You're fresh, uncorrupted, new. Your genius isn't contaminated." His voice filled with righteous anger. "But it will happen. You'll get old too fast. Too much hard living. You'll sell out. You'll become a money-making machine. One day you'll wake up, and you'll be used up. All that talent? Tarnished. All that energy? Gone." A manic light glinted in his eyes. "My virt will immortalize your perfection before success destroys you."

"Sure. Okay." Del wanted to scream. "I'll always have that."

"You won't need it." A stern look came over Raker's face. "I can't have you ruining the perfection I create." He glanced at Del's hand, then put his arm around the scantily clad woman at his side. "Delilah wouldn't like that."

Del felt ill again. Only one way would ensure that the reality of Del's future never intruded on their "perfect" virt.

Get rid of the real Del Arden.

XVI: Red Sky

Mac stood in front of the door of the hotel room. "Come on, Del." He was growing annoyed. "We have to leave. Open up."

No response. Mac strode away, simmering. Del must have overslept because he spent so much time in that damn Jewels Suite virt. What did he find to do for so long? It hadn't interfered with Del's commitments, so Mac had left him alone, but now he wondered. Maybe it affected Del more than he realized.

He stopped at Jud's room and flicked the pager. Within moments, the door opened.

"Hey, Mac," Jud said amiably. "I'm almost ready. You better go wake up Del."

"I tried," Mac said. "He's not answering."

Jud stopped smiling. "He didn't answer my comm, either."

"Maybe I should have the hotel let us in."

"You don't have a mesh-key card for his room?"

Mac shook his head, his concern growing. "Del said he was tired of everyone going in and out of his room."

Jud regarded him uneasily. "So how'll you get in?"

"I'll manage." Mac had agreed to act as Del's manager only if Del signed a power of attorney that let Mac do whatever he felt necessary to protect the youth. Like get into his hotel room.

Jud stepped out into the hall. "I'll come with you."

* * *

Jud couldn't believe it. No one at the Sunset Commander Hotel had questioned Mac when he asked for access to Del's room. That was strange enough. Now they entered an empty suite. It didn't even look as if anyone had been here.

"Del?" Mac called, walking into the bedroom.

Jud followed him just as Mac muttered, "I knew it!"

"What--oh," Jud said. Del was slouched at the console in his virt suit, his helmet down, his hands folded across his stomach, his chest rising and falling in the even rhythms of sleep.

"Come on, Del." Mac shook his shoulder. "Wake up."

"Wait." Jud came closer. "Del isn't that big. It's Cam."

"Cameron!" Mac shook his shoulder harder. "What are you doing in Del's virt suit?"

Jud glanced around, expecting to see Del sprawled in bed. But the floater mattress was empty. It looked undisturbed, but it could have neatened itself up. Except Del never got up this early unless someone dragged him out of bed. Given that the wake-up duties always fell to Cameron, Mac, or Jud, this made no sense.

"Huh." He pushed back his dreadlocks. "That's odd."

"How do you get someone out of this?" Mac had quit shaking Cameron. "I guess I could pull off his helmet."

Jud leaned over the console and flipped open the virt cavity. "Mac, no!" Swinging around, he said, "Don't touch it."

Mac froze with his hand on the helmet. "What's wrong?"

"Pull him out and you'll fry his brain."

Mac straightened up. "What are you talking about?"

"It's not just a virt!" Jud couldn't believe that Del, who supposedly had needed a loan to survive, could have this setup. "It's a direct node-to-brain system without a safety." He motioned at the cube in the console. "Does that look like any virt you've seen? It's a damn bliss-node."

"How would Del have one of those?" Mac asked.

"A good question." Jud crossed his arms. "He's been claiming he can hardly afford his rent. He acts like he's broke. And while I was trying to help my debt-saddled friend, he spent half a million buying a bliss-node. That fucking bastard."

"Jud, wait. Del wasn't making that kind of money. I manage his finances. He needed your help." Mac's face had paled. "How do we get Cameron out of this thing? I want to know why he's here instead of with Del."

"So Del dumped him." Jud was tired of Mac's constant worrying about Del, who was apparently perfectly able to take care of himself, to the tune of half a million dollars. "Maybe Del went off with some triller."

"I don't care how many girls he went with," Mac said. "He knows he can't leave Cameron behind. Cameron knows it."

"What is with you?" Jud said. "You're Del's manager, not his keeper. I don't care how much money Prime-Nova thinks he'll make them. It's his life. He shouldn't have cut it so close getting back here, but if he wants to go off, it's his business."

Mac spoke in a too quiet voice. "You have no idea what you're talking about." He indicated Cameron. "How do I get him out?"

"You have to wait until the session finishes."

"A way must exist to take him out now."

Jud almost said, I have no idea. But Mac's reaction was starting to unnerve him. "You need a neurologist. The helmet extends filaments into Cameron's brain. If we just pull them out, it could scramble his neural pathways."

Mac stared at him. "Then how does anyone get out?"

"You set it for a certain time," Jud said. "When it gets near that time, the node starts to untangle itself from your brain. It takes a while, but when it finishes, you come out of the session."

"Cripes," Mac said. "Why do you kids do that to yourselves?"

"I don't," Jud said. "I don't get any thrill out of locking myself into some fake fantasy world."

Mac studied Cameron's prone form. "Can you tell when he's due out of this one?"

"I don't know. He must have fallen asleep." Jud motioned at the glowing cube in the console slot. "But that's lit, so the session is still going."

"Talk about bizarre," Mac said. "A VR sim for someone to sleep in. What a waste of half a million dollars."

Jud stalked to the bed, then spun around to Mac. "It doesn't look like Del slept here at all last night."

"Damn," Mac said under his breath. He flicked a panel on his wrist mesh. A woman answered, her words indistinct. Then Mac said, "General McLane. Code Em-four."

Jud thought he must have heard wrong. McLane? As in General Fitz McLane, one of Allied Space Command's top commanders? It couldn't be. Even Jud, who paid little attention to military matters, had heard of McLane. No reason existed for a rock star's manager to contact one of the most influential commanders alive.

Another voice came on the comm, a man it sounded like.

"That's right," Mac said into his mesh. "We may have an incident." He waited, then said, "He might have just spent the night with someone and overslept. No, I agree. I'd rather anger him than risk leaving him undefended. Can you locate him?"

Find him? Just like that? Jud didn't see how, unless they had a tracking device on Del. Or more likely, in Del, so no one would notice, not even Jud, who lived with him. Which was so crazy it might be possible in this suddenly bizarre situation.

"That's in the Sierra Nevada mountains!" Mac said. "Hundreds of miles from here." He listened. "I'm at the hotel. Yes, they have a flyer pad on the roof. I'll be waiting. We need someone to see to Cameron, too. Del's trapped him in a virt. His brain is hard-wired into it. Yeah, one of those." He paused. "Good. We will. Out."

Jud stared at him. "What the hell is going on? Why would Allied Space Command send a flyer for Del?"

Mac came over to him. "I can't force you to keep what you just heard to yourself. I have no authority over you. But I ask you please, for Del's safety, tell no one."

Jud was getting scared. "All right. But what's going on?"

"It's up to Del what he wants to reveal." He turned and headed for the door. "Stay here with Cameron," he called back. "Annapolis is sending an expert, but I don't want to leave him alone."

"I'll comm Anne. She'll stay with him." Jud came around and blocked Mac's way. "Take me with you. To help Del. I know him better than anyone else."

Mac spoke quietly. "Jud, you have to understand, if you get deeper into this, you'll be involving yourself in interstellar politics on a level you probably can't even imagine."

A memory came to Jud of Del kidding around with the band:

"Well, you know," Del said with mock solemnity. "I'm Skolian."

"Yet here you are," Randall said, "living in Baltimore."

"Actually," Anne said, "at the moment, he's in a van."

"Allied Space Command brought me here," Del said. "To Earth. To keep me in custody. Except they had to let me go because I hadn't done anything wrong . . ."

"My God," Jud said. "He wasn't joking."

Mac blinked. "About what?"

"He told us he was Skolian, that ASC brought him here."

Mac's gaze never wavered. "No, he wasn't joking."

"What could Del possibly have that the military wants?"

"Call Anne down here," Mac said. "Then walk with me up to the flyport. We can talk then."

Jud stood restlessly with Mac at the dark green doors of the lift to the roof. "Even if he is Skolian," Jud said, "that's no reason for a five-star general to notice him."

Mac spoke carefully. "Del is a member of a prominent family."

Jud found it hard to believe. Del acted neither rich nor important. "Would I recognize their name?"

Mac regarded him steadily. "The Ruby Dynasty."

Jud scowled at him. "Don't shit me."

"I'm not."

"Del isn't a Ruby prince." Jud was getting angry. What stupid game was this? "We both know that."

"No," Mac said with that oddly quiet tone. "We both don't know that. Del is the third son of Roca Skolia, Heir to the Ruby Throne."

Another memory came to Jud, the words to "Rubies": Hiding deepest vulnerabilities / Cursed by your mind's abilities / For within you lies the hope for all days / Rubies must give their souls in all ways.

"My God," Jud said. "He's a Ruby empath. No wonder he went catatonic his first time onstage."

Mac said, simply, "Yes."

The lift doors hummed and slid open. As they stepped inside the blue-carpeted chamber, Mac said, "That's why we never took the interview request from that undercity reviewer. We were afraid he would ask too many questions about the lyrics of 'Rubies.' "

"I don't get it," Jud said. "Why come to Earth?" Of all the places for a Skolian rock singer to make his name, he couldn't imagine why the home of the Allied Worlds would be on the list.

"Allied Space Command gave protective custody to some members of the Ruby Dynasty during the war," Mac said as the doors closed. "Except after the war, ASC wouldn't let them go. They're afraid the Skolians and Traders will go at each other until they wipe out the human race."

Jud grimaced. "They aren't the only ones."

"Skolians blast my mind," Mac said. "After that brutal, crushing war with the Traders, what's the first thing they do? Recover? Heal? Rescue people? No. The Ruby Pharaoh overthrows her own government. What the blazes was that about?"

"Hell if I know." Jud thought back to what he had heard about the coup. "I thought that takeover didn't work."

"Sure it worked," Mac said. "She just gave half her power back to the Assembly. They rule jointly."

"Why?" Skolian politics had never made much sense to Jud. Or, he suspected, to most people, including Skolians.

Mac spoke dryly. "You and every military expert we have would like that answer. She claims it's a better government. Maybe she's even right." He exhaled. "Afterward, Imperial Space Command sent a special ops team for the Ruby Dynasty on Earth. They were in Scandinavia, but we had Del here. So he didn't get pulled out with the others. Then Ricki saw him sing. The rest you know."

Jud couldn't put it all together. "Then why haven't I heard of this place Lyshriol where Del says he lived?"

"We have a different name for it."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Mac met his gaze. "Skyfall."

"What?" Jud couldn't process it all. "Are you trying to tell me that Del's father is the flipping King of Skyfall?"

"Actually," Mac said, "his father was a farmer and historian. When he married into the dynasty, the media dubbed him the King of Skyfall." His voice quieted. "He passed away a few months ago. Del's oldest brother left home, and the son next in line died in the war."

"Then who's the King of Skyfall?"

"Well, uh, Del, actually."

This was really too much. "Del. My sloppy, surly, don't-wake-me-up-until-noon roommate."

"Yeah." Mac smiled wryly. "That Del."

"So if he's a Ruby prince, why is he always broke? No, never mind." Jud knew Del well enough to answer that question. "He doesn't want to touch his family's money. Except for buying that damn bliss-node." Even that made sense. Being on stage had to be hell for a Ruby psion.

The lift suddenly opened onto the roof, and wind ruffled Jud's clothes. Far above them, a dark flyer was circling the tower, descending to pick them up.

Del ran.

The landscape buckled, black and glassy, a psychotic world with a red sky and distant volcanoes. This race was insane. He wasn't really running, he was strapped down in a virt suit and trapped in this sim, but if he didn't do what Raker wanted, the madman shocked him with electric jolts.

Until Del met Raker and Delilah, he hadn't really known what the term "virt-head" meant. They were addicted to bliss. Both were also virtisos, fans who followed an artist, trying to know him better so they could intensify the sessions they created about him. As far as Del had seen, most virtisos were harmless, like Talia and Kendra, the girls he had taken to dinner. But Raker and Delilah took it to a terrifying new level.

Sooner or later, Mac would realize something was wrong. But by then, it might be too late. Cameron wouldn't surface from the node until morning. He probably didn't even know he was in a sim. Del had told him that he had decided not to meet the girl after all. When Cameron asked if Del intended to do a virt session, Del said the suit was off-kilter and he didn't know why. Cameron had even offered to check it out without Del asking. Del had activated it while Cameron had it on, running a session that started with Cameron taking off the suit. Anne had come in, or at least Del's rendering of her, and things took off from there. All Cameron would know was that he and Anne had a great night together.

Del had thought he was so clever. Now he sincerely hoped he hadn't been anywhere near as smart as he thought, that Cameron had figured it out and found a way to contact someone from within the sim. The longer this went on, the less hope Del had that someone would find him before Raker decided he had enough material for his virt and disposed of the messy, imperfect Del Arden.

Del climbed into a cluster of black spears and collapsed in a pocket hidden within them. Breathing hard, he rubbed his eyes.

"You tired?" Delilah asked.

Del looked up with a jerk. She was leaning over a notch in the crag that hadn't been there before, watching him curiously. She was all in black now, from her boots to her skin-tight catsuit.

"Delilah, listen," Del said. "I can give you a much better time if you don't keep me trapped here."

"But I like it here." She waved her hand at the sky. "Isn't it dramatic?" Her smile dimpled. "And you look so cute, running for your life."

Cute? Cute? She was as crazy as Raker. But they wouldn't kill him until they completed their virtual Del Arden. He had to convince them they needed him alive.

"If I get out of breath," Del said, "I can't sing my new songs for you."

"I've heard all your songs," she purred. "I love them."

"Not these. I haven't sung them for anyone yet."

She straightened up. "You must sing them for me! We need everything."

They needed everything--except the real him. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing away the sweat. "Delilah, listen. I'm always thinking up songs. They're never like the old ones. I can sing them to you forever."

Her face twisted. "You'll get old. Corrupted."

"Not in the virt."

"Sing to me," she said. "That strange song about a lagoon."

Del regarded her uncertainly. "Lagoon? I don't . . ."

Her face contorted into a hideous mask. "Sing it!"

Del jumped up, banging into the crag behind him. The sky darkened, and one of the volcanoes spewed ash and flame. Fortunately, he realized what she meant before she decided to flood him with lava. The verse in "Emeralds" about the lake.

"I'll sing!" Del waved his hand in front of his face as ash sifted over them. "Whatever you want."

"Good." Her face turned angelic.

Del took an ashy breath. "Night darkens the secret h-hollows /
Within the silvered lagoon / Body rising from the water / Streaming under the s-silent moons . . ." His voice trailed off. He didn't want to remember that night, especially not now, when the person who demanded to hear it also wanted to hurt him.

"Your beautiful body, all wet and sleek," Delilah murmured. "Sing more."

Del could only stare at her, feeling ill.

"I can't hear you," she said in an ugly voice. "I like that part about how you didn't desert her. Sing that."

He sang dully. "I didn't desert you / Despite what they crowed." His voice cracked as he stumbled on the words. "Y-You still believed I was true / They learned what our love knows."

Delilah's voice took on an edge. "Who was she? Someone prettier than me?"

"No," Del lied.

"Your lover?"

"No. It wasn't that kind of love. I meant my sister."

"Oh." Her hard expression eased. "What does she look like?"

"She's skinny and plain and dull," Del said, though none of it was true. He didn't want a song about the killing effects of jealousy to end his life because of Delilah's jealousy. "Nothing compares to you." The words felt like sawdust in his mouth. He meant them, but not in the way she wanted.

"Good." She threw back her hair, and the volcano stopped erupting. Then she climbed into the hollow with Del and put her arms around his waist. "Hug me."

Del didn't want to touch her. It was all he could do to keep from shoving her away.

"Delilah, get the fuck off him," a voice said.

Del froze, then slowly lifted his gaze. Raker was standing behind the notch where Delilah had been leaning a moment before.

She pouted at the large man. "You're the one who wanted us sexing it up for the virt."

Raker ignored her and motioned to Del with his carbine, which had suddenly appeared in his hand. "Get out here."

Del had no idea what would happen if Raker shot him while they were in a simulation. In a normal virt, being shot would just throw him out of the session. But with his brain wired into the node, the experience could become so realistic, he might die even if Raker hadn't actually done anything.

Del didn't have to move Delilah; she vanished. Rattled, he climbed out of the pocket. Raker stood back, the carbine gripped in both hands. With no warning, he fired, blasting the crags where Del had hidden. Instead of turning to ash, the residue bizarrely ran across the ground and hardened into glass.

"You told Harriet you had new songs," Raker said.

"I told who?" Del asked.

"Me." Delilah appeared at Raker's side dressed in red lace panties and a little red top. "Harriet is my real name. I picked Delilah for you. Del. Delilah." She smiled. "It fits, don't you think?"

"Yeah." Sweat was gathering on Del's hands. "Sure."

"Sing something we've never heard before," Raker told him. "Something powerful."

Del stood with his hands at his side, instinctively poised to protect himself. He couldn't think of anything they had never heard except "Carnelians." He didn't want to give it to them, but he wanted even less to die. So he sang:

I'm no golden hero in the blazing skies
I'm no fair-haired genius hiding in disguise
I'm only a singer; it's all that I can do
But my voice is rising; I can sing the truth

"Oh, that's strong," Delilah said. She sounded as if she wasn't sure she wanted to approve or censure it. In the virt, Del couldn't pick up their emotions, probably because they were actually at consoles well separated from him. But he didn't think Raker liked the verse.

"Who's the golden hero?" Raker asked.

"My brother," Del said tightly. The Imperator. He even had gold skin. A metallic man.

"What about the fair-haired genius?" Raker brushed his hand across his bristly yellow hair. "You singing about me?"

"You certainly fit the line," Del lied.

Raker laughed harshly. "You're right, I'm a genius. And you're just a singer." He raised the gun. "What truth are you going to sing, hmmm?"

Then he fired point-blank at Del.

Mac stared out the window as the flyer circled, searching out a place to land in the mountainous forest. Maura Penzer and Jackson Stolia, the pilot and the copilot, were Marines trained for special operations, as were the four agents in the other flyer circling with them.

Jackson sat in a VR rig in his seat, the visor pulled over his head, his suit gleaming in the dim light from the controls. He was going through simulated walk-throughs of the mountains below, updating his assessment of the situation as the flyer's sensors monitored the area and refreshed his data.

Jud was in a passenger seat, looking out the window. He had been silent during the trip. It didn't surprise Mac, given what he had to absorb. Oh excuse me, your roommate is a Ruby Heir. Maybe it was good that Jud knew. Mac doubted Randall could handle it, and he didn't know about Anne, but Jud understood Del better than the others. He wouldn't take any guff from Del because his roommate turned out to be a prince, but Jud would keep an eye on him.

Holomaps in the flyer showed Del's location, a mountain cabin surrounded by fir trees heavy with snow, which also carpeted the ground. A quaint chimney jutted up from the roof, and a plume of smoke curled into the frosty air. It all looked innocently rustic. Maura brought them down in a clearing hidden from the cabin. The flyer had stealth capability, including shrouds that disguised it from radio, radar, optical, ultraviolet, and neutrino detectors. In silent running mode, it landed with almost no sound.

Jackson and Maura checked their armor and jumped out, followed by Mac and Jud. Mac sealed the front of his jacket, letting the climate controls warm his body. Jud watched him, then copied the gesture with an almost identical jacket that Jackson had lent him.

Maura stood facing Jud and Mac, and her voice came out of a mesh in the helmet covering her head. "Stay back. Let us do our work. Mac, I'm trusting your recommendation that we bring Mister Taborian. You're responsible for him."

"I'll stay out of it, believe me," Jud said.

"We'll hit the cabin with an EM pulse just before we go in," Maura said. "That's when your comm and the meshes in your clothes might stop working. Our optical and neutrino scramblers shouldn't affect you as much."

Mac nodded, and Jud said, "I understand."

"Good." She spoke into the comm on the gauntlet embedded in her armor. "Gregori, are you down?"

A man answered. "Two hundred meters north, Captain." Then he said, "Something's going on in that cabin. They've blocked all our three-D imaging sensors. I'm also registering a lot of optic-meshes, carbon fiber composites, and biosynthetics in there."

"Damn," Jackson muttered.

"Keep trying to get the images," Maura said. "We'll rendezvous at the cabin and go with Plan Delta." Then she said, "No lethals unless absolutely necessary. I don't want Valdoria hit by friendly fire, and if someone did kidnap him, we want them alive. But if you have no choice, I don't care what hostiles you blast. Just get Valdoria out of there."

"Got it," Gregori said.

"All right. Switch to internal."

Whatever other communication the team had went private among them, transmitted on a tactical channel from helmet to helmet. Mac had no doubt it was scrambled and encoded as well.

They slipped through the forest, their footfalls muffled by snow, Mac and Jud staying back a few paces. The pristine swaths of white on the ground and weighting down the firs reflected in the chameleon armor of the Marines until it was hard to tell where the land ended and the commandos started. It felt surreal to Mac.

Although it was out of character for Del to vanish this way, he wouldn't be the first of Mac's clients who went AWOL while celebrating the heady flush of success. They might discover Del had just come here for a tryst with some girl, but he would rather overreact than be unprepared. Given the cabin's defenses, though, Mac doubted they had overreacted. No normal person equipped a house with military-grade systems. Nor could the team's EM pulse, or electromagnetic pulse, affect the optical or bio-circuits Gregori had detected inside. The Marines had a Faraday cage that would protect their equipment against the pulse, but they couldn't put everything in it, which meant it might affect their nonlethal weapons. As a backup, they had semiautomatics, which were immune to modern tech, but in close quarters, the high-velocity rounds from those atavistic guns could end up hurting Del, too.

At least the team's armor included release ports for nanite gas, which could knock someone out without killing them. The nanites could be partially counteracted by an antidote gas, but it would take someone with a survivalist mentality bordering on psychotic to have stolen the military-issue gear and chemicals needed to give that protection.

Mac didn't want to think what would have happened if Del hadn't been a Ruby prince. Far more time would have passed before anyone found him. It brought home with a vengeance the price public figures paid for their fame. Nor did the tech advances of their mesh-saturated age guarantee celebrities would act with any more wisdom than in prior ages. Del had made a mistake, and he could die for that misjudgment.

Del became aware he was slumped against the wall of a darkened room. Immobile--but alive. Alive.

He couldn't move his legs. After several moments, he managed to raise his arm.

"Del?" Delilah spoke sleepily at his side.

With painful slowness, he lowered his arm and turned his head. He was sitting on the mattress, and Delilah lay next to him, just waking up, her body covered by a silvery sheet. He tried to speak, but only a whisper came out. "What do . . . to me?"

She pulled herself up until she was sitting, and the sheet fell around her waist, leaving her torso bare. Del didn't want to look, but his traitorous gaze dropped to her voluptuous body.

"You'll be all right," she said. "Your brain thinks you were blasted."

"Delilah, don't do this." His voice cracked. "Don't you want the real Del? You don't have to settle for some phony simulation."

"You'll never be corrupted in the bliss," she said in a surreally angelic voice. "You'll always be exactly as you are now." She touched the hinge in his hand. "Except better."

"It will get boring if you can predict everything I do," he rasped. "With the real Del, you'll always have pleasant surprises. New songs."

"Sing to me," she murmured. " 'Diamond Star.' "

He sang raggedly. "Shimmering radiance above / Softening this lost man's love."

She sighed with pleasure, but something felt wrong. He didn't feel her enjoyment. With a rush of vertigo, he realized they were still in the virt.

"Make love to me," Delilah said, sliding down onto the bed.

Nausea swept over Del. He couldn't stand the thought of having sex with her.