Diamond Star (20 page)

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.