Diamond Star (19 page)

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."