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, though. 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 shit, 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 in the booth 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 worth horse manure, and almost none 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 sheer beauty of art for its own sake, the power of a song, some shining quality that transcended the human condition—
No. That stupid, naïve 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 naïve, 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.