Rolling Thunder (13 page)

“Yeah, we were …”

“And you’d be Podkayne, the admiral’s daughter, the one who stole my room from me. And I’m Karma.”

“He’s my … I’m his nie— … listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t … you can have …”

“Don’t worry about it. It was presented to me as a request, not an order, and I didn’t like the room, anyway.”

“What’s not to like?”

“The windows. Would you mind closing them?”

I went over and hit the power button, and the big window closed tight. I looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Agoraphobia,” she admitted. “Also a touch of acrophobia. I’m a lot happier in a room without windows, especially if it’s this high up.”

That was fairly common among Martians. A lot of us don’t get out much.

“So how did you …”

“Kept the windows closed. Long as I can’t see it, I’m fine. Your next question is why did I stay here for over a year, and I guess it was the cat. He comes with the unit, sort of.”

“That’s what William said, too. What you do mean, ‘sort—’ “

“Kahlua doesn’t belong to anybody, like most of the pets here do. He goes where he wants, but this is his bedroom. He’s the dominant male in the Swamp; all the other cats get out of his way. He came to visit last night, so that’s okay. Donut?”

I took one out of the bag, took a bite, and the sugar rush finally got me feeling more or less awake.

“You’re …”

“Short? Everybody notices that. But I’m Mars-born, just like you. Not
all
Martians live in the stratosphere.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Perky? I can’t help it. You’ll get used to it.”

“Will you ever let me—”

“Finish a sentence? Probably not. I’m sort of telepathic, all my friends say so.”

I thought,
you have friends?
It didn’t seem likely, if she was always like this.

“I know.” She sighed. “It’s just nerves. I’m the shortest Martian I know, and it doesn’t do much for a girl’s confidence. I’ll settle down presently.”

“Karma … ?” It didn’t seem worth the effort to say anything more, and I was right.

“Well, at least it’s unusual. Like Podkayne. My mom is a bit of a nut, tell you the honest truth.”

Right. And you’re telepathic.

“You have a right to be dubious. But you’ll see. Mom didn’t plan on getting pregnant, but when I showed up she decided it was in the stars. Could have been worse. Just ask my brother, Fate, or my sister, Kismet.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, and soon we both were.

“You just wait,” she said. “We’re going to be best friends.”

I didn’t think that was likely. I liked my friends to be quieter.

“You just wait,” she repeated, almost … okay, almost like she was reading my mind. “So let’s get going, time’s a-wasting! Finish that coffee while I brew some more, get in the shower, change clothes … we’ve
got
to do something about this
room.
We’ve got to go”—dramatic pause, and she spread her arms wide—
“shopping!”

HOW COULD YOU
do it, Poddy? Don’t you know better? The
drummer
? You know drummers, they’re apt to spontaneously combust, die in a bizarre gardening accident, or strangle on vomit, possibly even their own vomit. That was the
point
about drummers. You never knew what they were going to do, but you could be pretty sure it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Quinn,” he said solemnly, when we first met, at the MADDMN compound near Pavonis Mons, back on Mars. “Just Quinn.”

“First or last?” I asked.

“Just Quinn.”

“Strickland,” I said, just as solemnly. “Podkayne Strickland.” I could have said “Podkayne, just Podkayne,” since that’s how I usually introduced myself, but I used ex-President Kelly’s name when I wanted to impress, and somehow right from the first I wanted to impress this man.

He was cool. Just a slight widening of his eyes betrayed that he knew the name, but he wasn’t about to ask if I was from
that
Strickland family.

We were all doing a rather strange mating dance at Pavonis, and it didn’t have anything to do with sex. Well, of course
everything
humans do has
something
to do with sex, but that’s not why we were courting each other. In
this
dance hall, sexual preference had nothing to do with it. I found myself wooing Cassandra Alonzo as passionately as I’d ever gone after any guy … but it was her hands I wanted, and I wanted them on the keyboards.

See, being admitted to the MADDMN was just step one. To stay there, on the pop music level, you had to assemble an act. Classically trained musicians had it easy. If you were a whiz on the violin, cello, trumpet, or clarinet, you would quickly be inducted into one of the ensembles like the military bands, drum and bugle corps, or even the symphony. But guitar whangers, drum-set pounders, jazz ‘bone pickers, and contralto chantoossies usually had to unite or die … which in my case would mean finding myself back on the beach at Pismo.

Some groups came preformed, they’d worked together before their mandatory enlistment, but that was fairly rare. It’s an axiom in the trade that pop bands have an average life of about six months before “artistic differences” tear them apart. Artistic differences usually means that all the other people in the group are behaving like assholes. Trust me, I’ve seen it many times. (Me? An asshole? I prefer “perfectionist,” but it’s
possible
some others might use a more powerful word.)

You didn’t have forever to accomplish this. In fact, you had thirty days before you had to come before the auditioning board, rehearsed and ready to boogie, for a thumbs-up or a one-way ticket back to your old posting.

I had arrived at Pavonis with the intention of going solo. Me, a piano, a bar, and endless requests for “Melancholy Baby” and “Send in the Clowns” and “The Phobos Blues.” I was informed within the hour that there were no openings for such an act. Come back in a year and try again. Pismo, here I come.

I was good enough to join one of the touring companies that were assembled at Pavonis. There were call sheets out for
Aida
and
The Mikado,
and I knew I could easily find work as either Amneris or Katisha (in suitable makeup). There was also
Sweeney Todd
—I’d always wanted to play Mrs. Lovett—and a new musical, something called
Work in Progress,
based on
Finnegans Wake.
I’d listened to some downloads of the West End version, and knew I could really
own
the part of Anna Livia Plurabelle.

But these were all migratory assignments, hopping from Mercury to Sedna and all the rocks in between. I’d have to give up my Europa posting, and I wasn’t about to do that. If I wanted to sing opera or Broadway, Europa had resident amateur groups I could join … but first I had to get to Europa, and with each passing day that was seeming harder and harder. Just getting the posting was easy. Nepotism, pure and simple. But Uncle Admiral couldn’t help me when it came to the qualifying round.

IT WAS QUINN
who brought us together. There were six of us at first, and we knew each other from the jams and solos we’d all attended and participated in, trying to make something work. It had been two weeks, and several bands had already formed and shipped out. The other four were Cassandra, Joey, and Jim Hartman—a fiddle player who specialized in bluegrass and zydeco, but who Quinn judged was adaptable enough for what he had in mind—and Meiko Miyazaki …

… a singer. It was obvious one of us had to die. We hated each other at first sight, and so behaved with every possible show of friendliness. I don’t think any of the guys were fooled. She sang in that nasal soprano characteristic of nip-pop of the last two decades.

“Jim, who are your influences?” Quinn asked, when we were all settled around a table at the canteen with coffee and munchies.

“Well, Clifton Chenier, of course.” He thought about it, his fingertips idly moving over his violin strings. “Boozoo Chavis. Buckwheat. Leftover. Rockin’ Sydney. Soilent Green.” Quinn nodded at each name. I knew about half of them, and it was clear nobody else there knew any of them. “Cedric Rainwater, Flatt and Scruggs, Vassar Clements, Kentucky Thunder, Yonder Mountain. Is that enough?”

“That’ll do. What about you, Meiko?”

“The Usual Suspects,” she said.

“No, be specific,” Cassandra said.

“I am. That’s a band.” Meiko looked a little miffed. “They started the Okinawa pentatonic rock movement ten, fifteen years ago. Other influences … Happy End, Sandii and the Sunsetz, The 5.6.7.8’s, Aushvitz, Green Milk From the Planet Orange, Michelle Gun Elephant, The Termites …” She rambled on in that vein for a while, and all of us but Quinn were googling as fast as we could key in the names. All head-banger bands, every one of them. I never did find out for sure if Quinn knew all of those groups, but his knowledge of the music of the last century and a half was encyclopedic, so he may have.

When she was finished, Quinn turned to me.

“Podkayne? Influences?”

I didn’t like the way this was going. I felt sure Quinn wanted to put together a band that would specialize in more current pop, which wasn’t my strength at all. But I forged ahead, trotting out my own list of the usual suspects.

“Barbra, of course, and Ella and Billie. And—”

“Billy who?” Meiko asked. “I don’t know any solo guy named Billy. Who does he sing with?”

There was a silence, which stretched out uncomfortably. Joey broke it.

“I think she means Billie Holiday,” he said.

“Lady Day?” Vanessa prompted. Meiko shrugged.

“Natalie Appleton,” I went on. “Sinatra … Frank, not Nancy. David Crosby. Anita O’Day, Baako Williams, Janis Siegel, Anita Baker, The Roches, Janis Ian, Feminem, Beyoncé, Siobhann Heidenreich, Art Garfunkel … is that enough?”

Meiko was looking cross-eyed, obviously scanning the information she was googling. I don’t think she knew much about any of the people I had mentioned.

“Sinatra? How can this man be an influence on you? He is a baritone!”

I thought of saying “phrasing,” but I wasn’t sure she’d be familiar with the term.

I’m being catty here, I know it. Meiko had a narrow range and limited knowledge of those who came before her, but she was very good at what she did … if that was your cup of sake. Personally, I think sake tastes like warm piss.

Joey’s influences: the entire Marsalis family, Benny Goodman, Coleman Hawkins, Bird, Louis Armstrong, Artie Shaw, Rolf Smedvig, Michelle Perry. And so on through Cassandra (Thelonious Sphere Monk and Dave Brubeck—interesting combination—and Glenn Gould) and Quinn (Sandy Nelson, Art Blakely, Evelyn Glennie, Willie Bobo).

So at last we were all waiting to see what Quinn had to say. And it was this:

“I’m going to say just one word to start. That word is jazz.”

A pause while we all chewed that over. It was an incredibly juicy word, jazz, and one that worked fine for me.

“Miles?” Joey asked. “Bill Evans? Chick Corea? Bop?”

“A little cooler than that. Brubeck, Sinatra, scat, torch songs.”

“Pop jazz?” Cassandra suggested.

“And some rock. I don’t want to categorize too much. Here’s the deal. We don’t have to specialize too much. Pop music was in the doldrums for a long time. Rap eliminated melody, videos made it big business, downloads gave it back to the people, and the people haven’t come up with anything that interests me for a long time. I don’t like the formless stuff going down now; we’ve got melody back now, but it’s nonlinear and random, and I miss the beat.”

“I guess a drummer
would
miss it,” I said.

“I do, too,” Cassandra said.

“And me,” said Jim.

“Back then they were using drum machines,” Quinn said, in the tone of voice you might use to say “infected hemorrhoids.” I didn’t have anything to say to that. All singers have used synthesized backup at one time or another.

“Anyway,” he went on, “most musicians I know feel that popular music has been in one of its periodic downswings.”

Meiko looked like she was going to say something, then decided not to.

“Not all of them,” Quinn acknowledged. “But a lot, and I agree with them. So there’s that, and there’s the well-known fact that the type of music most people will enjoy throughout their lives is
set,
sort of programmed in, by the time they’re in their midtwenties.”

“Exactly,” said Meiko. “So take that, and add it to the fact that the bulk of Navy audiences are eighteen to twenty-one, serving out their hitches, and it seems to me we ought to be talking modern contemporary.”

“Makes sense,” Joey said.

“It does,” Quinn said, “and that’s why most everybody’s doing it. But there’s two things they haven’t thought about, and one thing
you
all haven’t thought about. One is that, on the outer-planet stations, the ratio of draftees to lifers is a lot lower. A
lot
lower. Most draftees serve dirt-side, redside, or IP Patrol.” That was Navy for Earth, Mars, or aboard a ship on customs patrol in the Inner Planets Naval Military Region, where the vast bulk of humanity resides: between Mercury and the asteroid belt.

“Now, I know none of you want that. So Podkayne’s got a ticket to Europa, and anybody who joins in a group with her can hitch a ride.”

Several eyebrows went up. He was right. None of the others had a secure posting, and they might end up in a much less interesting assignment. None of them were forgetting that they needed Madmen and Madams on the far-flung outposts of the dwarf planets, too, like Pluto, Eris, Sedna, Nanook, Tulugaak, Pukkeenegaak … all the way out to the edges of the Oort Cloud. These were widely considered to be hardship posts where a MADDMN troupe would spend most of its time aboard supply scows going from one long-period comet research facility to another.

My ticket to Europa.
My
ticket. I suddenly felt a lot better about things, to the point I might even consider bringing along a second singer. I could be magnanimous.

Meiko didn’t look like she could be.

“So our audience ain’t gonna be just people our age, that’s number one,” he said. He was doing a pretty good selling job. He had our complete attention. “Podkayne’s got a posting to Europa. And even with our generation, musical tastes are broader than they’ve been in years. Our moms and dads, they grew up in a creative musical era, they look back on it with nostalgia, they want to hear that music … and more, because it was a time of fusion and retrospection. Influences from way back were being felt. Oldies were being dragged out of the closet and getting a lot of downloads. And it’s kept up now that things are in a period of consolidation. Used to be, each generation had its own music, and the stuff that came before … that was squaresville, man. That’s a term from a century ago. Much less so today. Now that everything, and I mean
everything,
can be ordered and downloaded, people’s tastes are more eclectic. One person’s music stash might have a bit of opera, a bit of ragtime, Sinatra, Foo Fighters, Sex Pistols, the Termites, the Beatles, Graham Nash, Gregorian chants, Miles Davis … people are at least
open
to listening to just about anything. And if you’re good,
really
good, they’ll come back.”