Diamond Star (39 page)

"You'll be all right." Mac's emotions swirled around Del in hallucinogenic blurs. He feared Del would die. Jud feared he would die. And something else from Jud, too. Del didn't know. He had no strength to lower his barriers.

"Are you mad at me?" he whispered to Jud.

"No." Jud's voice echoed in Del's head. "I'm not mad at you. But don't you ever go off by yourself again."

"Is Cameron . . . all right?" Del asked.

"He's fine," Mac said.

Del closed his eyes. "I screwed up . . . royally this time."

Jud laughed unevenly. "It's the only way you
can
screw up."

It took a moment for Del's drug-soaked mind to absorb Jud's meaning. Then he slowly opened his eyes. "Mac told you."

"I was there when he called General McLane," Jud said.

Del felt sick. He didn't want to lose his best friend over this. "I'm not . . ."

"I know," Jud said gently. Tears were gathering in his eyes. "I'm not going to call your royal ass, 'Your Highness.' And now I know why you're such a slob. You're used to
people
picking up after you, aren't you? Not even bots, but humans. Well, it's not going to happen in our apartment. You have to do it yourself." His voice shook on the last few words.

Del didn't answer. His roommate knew what he needed to hear, that things wouldn't change. Of course it wasn't true; nothing would be the same. But it wouldn't take away Jud's friendship.

Del let go then and fell into oblivion.

Ricki stood at the observation window that looked into Del's hospital room. He was deep in his healing sleep, lying on his back with a silver sheet pulled halfway up his torso. As grateful as she was to Allied Space Command for rescuing him, she couldn't figure out why the hell they had done it or how they knew where to find him. Mac should have commed Prime-Nova. They had their own security force, which included operatives with military training.

At least ASC kept the incident out of the media. Unfortunately, they were also keeping it secret from Prime-Nova, including the virts those two sickos had created. From what Captain Penzer had told them, it sounded like "Raker" and "Delilah" had been whacked-out insane.

The records in the meshes showed they had followed Del from concert to concert until Delilah could get him alone. Delilah, aka Harriet Delmartin, had altered her face and body to fit what they believed was Del's ideal woman. Ricki didn't miss that the girl had looked like her. She would have laughed if it hadn't hurt so much. She knew damn well she wasn't Del's ideal woman. She had no idea who lived in his dreams, but it wasn't her.

Del looked so young, sleeping in the hospital bed, his lashes gold against his face. He bewildered Ricki. When most holo-rockers hit it big, they plunged with abandon into the lifestyle. Del spent his nights quietly, preferring virts to parties. He made love to her like a maestro, sometimes gently, other times wild and rough, and always affectionate afterward.

In the past, when it came to lovers, Ricki had avoided rockers like the plague. They screwed around too much. Del wasn't as bad as most, but he was no angel, nor was he immune to how easy the women came. If he hadn't gone after that fanatical little tidbit in the first place, none of this would have happened.

The intensity of Ricki's response to him terrified her. She hadn't reacted with such strong emotions since her sixth birthday, the day her caustic father had walked out on her mother without even saying good-bye to his heart-broken daughter. Her mother had been no fucking saint, either. Seven years later, she ran off with that sleazy-assed cowboy with the scarred hand, leaving Ricki on her own. Ricki had sworn then she would never care about anyone again enough to be hurt, not her stupid dysfunctional family, not her glitzy friends, and most of all, never anyone she loved.

She had survived at thirteen by seducing her first holo-rock singer, who kept her in jewels and contraband furs while he slept with everything on the planet that had at least one x-chromosome. She dumped him when a gentler man wooed her away, but she left that one when he asked her to marry him. She became invulnerable, so beautiful they all wanted her, but none could have her, because if she stayed, even long enough just to wake up with them, they would hurt her.

"He looks so peaceful," someone said.

Ricki jumped and turned with a start. Mac was standing next to her at the window. She scowled at him. "Your commandos release those virts yet?"

"They weren't commandos," Mac said. "The Raptor squad is a unit assigned by Allied Space Command to deal with civilian crises."

"What the blazes for?"

"ASC doesn't just exist to fight wars," he said blandly.

Yeah. Right. "Don't shit me, Mac. They also don't exist to rescue philandering rock stars."

He shrugged. "I called in a favor from my Air Force days."

"What for? You could have called Prime-Nova."

"This unit could act faster."

"Maybe." She didn't believe him, but she had no plausible reasons to replace his. "Or maybe that's total horse manure."

Mac met her gaze. "Be glad he's alive."

She exhaled like a balloon deflating. There was that. A few minutes more, and Del could have been dead. Ricki had no idea how to deal with how much the thought wrenched her. She didn't know how to turn off the rusty, long-unused emotions Del jolted awake within her. She had been with him too long, over six months. She had even been faithful. But that surely was because she hadn't met anyone else who interested her. It had to be. She couldn't be falling in love with him, because she wasn't capable of loving anyone.

XVII: Rubies

The first person Del saw when he woke up was Staver Aunchild.

Del lay in a bed secured by flexi-metal railings. The room had blue walls with calming swirls of color. The subtle images would have soothed him if he hadn't felt like a star dock crane had hit him in the head. Lines of light went from his body to contraptions around the bed.

Staver was sitting in an armchair, studying a display of musical notes above a holobook. He was the last person Del would have expected to see when he woke up. Mac or Jud seemed more likely. Ricki, he hoped, but she probably never wanted to see him again. Him and his damn hormones and his stupid insecurity about being called pretty. Yeah, he had really proved his masculinity with Delilah. The gruesome image of how she and Raker died would stay with him for the rest of his life, as well as the knowledge that it could have been him, if his rescuers had been a few minutes later. He didn't want to feel remorse at their deaths, but the guilt flooded him.

The business with Delilah and Raker had an eerie resonance to what had happened with Lydia and Staver. In both cases, someone had knocked him out, and he awoke with a woman he didn't know. Both times, they had violated his privacy and forced his cooperation. Now here was Staver again. Panic flared in Del.

Calm down,
he thought.
A coincidence doesn't make Staver guilty of anything.
But his fear didn't go away.

"Hi," Del whispered.

Staver looked up and smiled. "Hello."

"Good to see . . . you." Del wasn't sure that was true, but it came out anyway. Harv, his publicist, had coached him too well.

"I'm sorry it has to be like this." Staver spoke firmly. "You can be assured, Mister Arden, that at any appearances you do for Metropoli Interstellar, we'll provide you with full security."

"Thanks." Del wondered how Staver knew what had happened. He blanched at the thought of the news all over the meshes. "Have the m-casters picked up the story?"

"Nothing," Staver said, his voice reassuring. "Prime-Nova kept it quiet. I only know because I was expecting you to sign a contract that morning, so I was with Zachary Marksman when the message came in."

"What about my concert in San Diego?" Del didn't like to miss even a rehearsal. "I still had that one left on the tour."

"It would have been last night," Staver said. "You were here, in the hospital."

Damn.
Del hated that people might think he had been unprofessional. He couldn't prove he was responsible about holding a job if he missed shows.

Del started to pull away the covers. "I have to reschedule--"

"Del, relax." Staver gently nudged him back. "Prime-Nova said you have bronchitis. They reimbursed people for tickets. Your fans are concerned. Not judgmental."

A flush heated Del's face. Like many empaths, Staver could judge his reactions all too well. "Do you know where Mac is?"

"He's been here non-stop," Staver said. "The doctors sent him home when he passed out from lack of sleep." He paused. "You'd think he was your father rather than your manager."

"I suppose." Del's mind was fuzzed enough from drugs that it lowered his natural emotional defenses, at least enough for him to say, "I lost my father recently." Mac had begun to fill that void.

"I'm sorry," Staver said. "It must have been difficult."

Difficult
was such a weak word for that devastating loss. For all that he resisted his family, Del loved them. And his father had understood him better than the others.

"I took over for him after he died," Del said. "Except now I'm here . . ." His brother Vyrl would have been ideal to replace Del as the Dalvador Bard, except he couldn't carry a tune. His sister Soz had been a military genius, Imperator, commander of the Skolian forces. The thought of her staying home as the Bard was ludicrous. Besides, she couldn't sing worth spit. She made Vyrl sound good. Not that it mattered; the Aristos had made sure she would never do anything again when they blasted her ship into high-energy plasma.

Del pushed away the burning memories and closed his eyes, worn out.

"I'm sorry," Staver said. "I shouldn't keep you awake." His clothes rustled as he stood up. "Sleep well. We can talk later."

Del wondered if he would ever feel safe enough to sleep well again.

Denric Windward, or just Windar for short, taught reading, math, and anything else the children needed in the community where he had set up his school on the Skolian world Sandstorm. Today he took his students on an outing. They had nothing where they lived except water-tube ranches and sandstorms. So once a year he flew them to the starport where they could see the ships, visit the stores, and have a respite from the grind of their lives.

Sand blasted the fields outside the port, but the glossy malls inside gleamed. The eight teens he had brought wandered up and down the white Luminex concourses, gazing at displays, browsing the stores, and buying delicacies they could never get at home.

"Look!" One of the boys pointed to a marquee with red laser-torches. A gold sand-springer jumped up the wall and vanished in a wash of blue light. New springers appeared near the floor and dashed after the first.

"Sand-Springer Sounds," one of the girls said. "It's music!" She grabbed her friend's arm and headed into the store, followed by the others. Windar went with them, staying far enough back so he could chaperone without being intrusive.

The Sand-Springer brimmed with sound. Skolian music played everywhere, blending into a cacophony that was somehow harmonious. The store probably had AIs dedicated to creating that chaotic yet pleasant effect, matching it to whatever it picked up about customers from their conversation and body language. Colored lights reflected in the mirrored racks, and holos morphed in constant motion. The students spread out, exclaiming over the displays.

A tune jumped out at Windar, then faded into the din. The song sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. He knew so little about what the kids listened to, though, and this shop clearly catered to a generation far younger than his own.

As he walked through the store, the music caught him again. He stopped, straining to hear.

"What's wrong, Genn Windar?" one of his students asked, Shainna, a dark-haired girl of about fourteen.

"It's nothing," Windar said, feeling a little silly. "I thought I heard something I knew. But it wouldn't be in here."

She gave him the winning smile that had helped make her so well-liked among her peers. "You never know. Maybe you're more on the ultra than you think. What's the song?"

"I don't--" Windar stopped as he caught another few notes. "There it is." He and Shainna followed the sound to a section where they sold imports--

Windar froze.

Surrounded by a small audience, a holo-vid was running on a circular dais. It showed a man singing, his curls gleaming in the lights. Drums played, morphers, stringers, a swirl of sound, with the Skolian translation of his words scrolling around the dais. The upbeat, danceable melody contrasted with the intense lines he sang in his rich voice:

Look at all the widespread hate
Comes from the anger that fuels our race
Would you love me if I was somebody else?
Would you hate me if I choose to be myself?

Windar's voice cracked. "Gods almighty."

"Isn't he ultra?" Shainna said. "His vids are the newest thing from Earth. He's absolutely the best Allied singer."

"From
Earth?
" Windar stared at her in disbelief.

She regarded him uncomfortably. "Don't you like it?"

He stretched out his arm, pointing at the dais. "That man isn't an Allied singer!"

Other people were turning toward them, frowning at the interruption.

"But . . ." She hesitated, clearly not wanting to contradict her teacher. "Why do you say that?"

Windar spoke incredulously. "Because that's my
brother.
"

Mac had seen General McLane angry plenty of times, but this was different. Fitz was furiously
afraid.
Mac understood the feeling, because he felt the same way.

"We were almost too late," Fitz said flatly.

"They might not have killed Del," Mac answered. He wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure, himself or Fitz. "They were threatening him to ratchet up the tension in their virt. They didn't go ballistic until we came in." Mac would never forget that horrific moment when he had seen Del crumpled on the ground with those two vultures hovering over him.

"How does he hypnotize all these people?" Fitz asked, incredulous. "It's like they can't get enough of him."