Diamond Star (4 page)

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

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.

Ricki asked.

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

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.

Ricki told Greg.

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

Ricki snorted.

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."

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.

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."

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."