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's probably going to 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."
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, Apolyptica."
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.