Diamond Star (13 page)

"They'll shout me off the stage in Philadelphia," he said.

"Like hell." Mac thumped the table. "Okay, it's a bad review. That happens. Don't let it get you. You'll learn to ignore them."

"That review is a load of crap," Cameron rumbled.

Del blinked. From his impassive bodyguard, that qualified as an emotional outburst.

"Prime-Nova will pull me off the tour," Del said.

"Maybe," Mac admitted. "But they haven't yet." He leaned forward. "When we get to Philadelphia, you're going to hold up your head, go out on the stage, and sing."

Del tried to nod. He had made a commitment, and he kept his promises. But he didn't know how he would manage.

"I've another review," Jud said. He kept his face and voice carefully neutral.

"Don't play it," Randall told him, his gaze flicking to Del.

"No, go ahead," Del said tiredly. "I want to hear."

"It's Sarah Underwile from the
Washington Post
." Jud flicked a holicon, and a woman's voice came into the van. She enthused for a while about Mind Mix. Then she said, "In their grueling schedule, the band has asked for an opener to ease their three-hour marathons. Last night, Prime-Nova introduced an unknown, Del Arden, as the warm-up. They've clearly pushed him through as fast as possible, probably to meet the demands of their mega-stars. The surprise is that they chose an undercity artist. Arden appears to have talent; his voice shows remarkable versatility. Whether he can carry a show is another question. If last night was an indication, he's not ready for the major concert circuit."

After a moment, Jud said, "That wasn't so bad."

"She said the same things as Pizwick," Del said. "She was just nicer about it."

"She gave you a line," Mac said. " 'His voice shows remarkable versatility.' It's a usable quote from a major media source."

Del suspected people would just hear the negative review, not the subtler message his manager heard.

"Huh," Jud said, peering at his screen. "You got a review from Jason Mulroney in
Down and Below
. They don't usually cover Mind Mix."

"
Down and Below
?" Anne leaned over the back of the seat. "What's that?"

"An undercity newspaper," Jud said. "Here, listen. This is the part about Del."

A man spoke. "For the first time ever, Prime-Nova sponsored an undercity artist in one of their tours, as the opener for Mind Mix no less. Billed as Del Arden, the singer will undoubtedly come under fire, in part for his obvious lack of preparation, but also for his unconventional music, lyrics, and presentation. He's not your typical Prime-Nova artist, and I'll admit to being stunned they took a chance like this. The depth of his composition goes against the purely commercial nature of their stable. I've been critical of Prime-Nova in the past, but this development makes me wonder if I judged them too soon."

Mulroney paused. "The disappointment is that Arden gave such a clumsy performance. No matter how good the material, the delivery matters. With such a strong opportunity to showcase the undercity, I would have wished for a smoother show. His support musicians weren't headlined with him, but they deserve kudos. Anne Moore and Randall Gaithers are well known in the studio circuit, and last night their luminous performances showed why they're in such demand. Jud Taborian further established his reputation as one of the hottest morphers this side of Neptune. Arden may have struggled with a rough start, but this is an artist and band worth watching."

"Hey!" Anne said. "That was almost good."

Del wouldn't have defined
The disappointment is that Arden gave such a clumsy performance
as "almost good." He was pulling down a strong band. He glanced at Mac. "I owe you an apology."

"You don't owe me anything." Mac smiled wryly. "Except my cut of whatever you make."

"If I had listened to you, I wouldn't be cringing my way through these reviews."

"It'll get better." Mac sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Del.

"Yeah." Randall grinned. "We'll kill 'em in Philadelphia."

Anne's throaty laugh curled around them. "Randy, hon, you got to stop wishing death on our audiences."

Del tried to smile. But he kept thinking about Ricki.
Had
he slept his way into a job he didn't deserve? Jud, Anne, and Randall had paid their dues and earned their shot at the major circuit. It wasn't only his pride at stake here; he didn't want them to lose their jobs through his failure.

He hadn't known what it would be like. Now he knew--and he didn't see how he could ever face that crushing mental pressure again.

"The traffic grids crashed!" Mac shouted into his comm. "Damn it, Linda,
we'll be there.
We're at the edge of the city. Just give us twenty minutes."

Del sat tensely with Jud, Anne, and Randall. It was just his luck that the control-grids had collapsed and snarled traffic in the Baltimore-Philadelphia corridor. Nothing had moved for two hours except drivers who illegally jimmied their vehicles free of control. The outlaws snaked in and out of the frozen traffic or leapt into the sky even after the crisis-grid activated, allowing only emergency vehicles to fly. Del and the others had left their hotel with plenty of time to make the Philadelphia concert, but the traffic mess had cut their cushion of time to nothing. He was due on stage in ten minutes.

"What?" Mac said into his comm. "Linda, I can't hear you. The crowd is too noisy." After a pause, he said, "No, don't replace him with another band! We won't be long. Just give us a little more time."

Listening to him, Del didn't know whether to hope he made it in time or that he wouldn't have to go out there and sing.

The Holo Fields outside Philadelphia offered the largest concert venue on the Atlantic Seaboard. Endless meadows surrounded the amphitheater, and audio globes whirled everywhere, carrying the music to the never-ending audience. People spilled all over, running, playing football, buying food from vendors, picnicking. Their minds were a quiescent ocean for now, none focused on Del, but he felt the growing pressure.

Del wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "Mac, how many?"

"You mean people?" Mac asked, distracted. When Del nodded, Mac said, "The current count is more than three hundred fifty thousand, but it's constantly changing. They expect a lot more."

Del's stomach lurched.
You'll be all right,
he told himself. He couldn't be the first empath who had ever performed before a big crowd.

There had to be a way to survive this.

Linda Hisner, the concert manager, had a crew waiting at the stage for Del. Within moments after his hover-van smacked into its pad, techs were setting them up onstage.

Jud started playing as Del ran onstage. Del was supposed to introduce the band, but the words flew out of his mind. The crowd was at four hundred thousand now--and they were suddenly all
focused
on him, bursting with impatience, high on excitement. He was drowning in a tidal wave of emotions.

"Del, sing!" Mac was yelling in his ear, and Del finally comprehended that Mac had been talking and talking to him.

The intro to "Emeralds" kept cycling. Del began to sing, then realized he hadn't switched on his mike. He flicked it on and started at the wrong place. After stumbling through several lines, he stopped and started over. The roar from the audience never abated. He wasn't sure they even knew he was singing.

"Go up front," Mac urged. "Go to the front of the stage." He was standing at the edge of the stage behind one of the huge morph engines that bordered it, motioning to Del as well as talking on the comm.

Del forced himself to walk forward as he sang. But the closer he got to the audience, the more his mind shut down. His voice cracked, something that hadn't happened since he was thirteen.

"Del, you can do it," Mac said in his ear. "Relax. Let go."

He couldn't let go. He was shielding his mind so much, he could barely think. What it really meant was that he was suppressing chemicals in his brain. Any more, and his brain would turn off, knocking him out.

Only habit kept him going. He had sung this piece for years. He thought he was standing still, but then he backed into a mesh-amp at the back of the stage. The audience was restless, edgy, more impatient than before he started. People yelled to each other, walked back and forth, waved their arms. It was chaos.

When Jud started the third song, "Sapphire Clouds," Del couldn't sing. His throat just closed up.

"Del, you have to start," Mac said in his ear.

He couldn't.

"Del," Mac said, almost pleading. "Sing."

Del walked over to Mac. When he left the stage, someone shouted, "What the hell did we pay for?"

Del stood in front of Mac, hidden from the audience by the morph engine. Techs were all around them, some checking mesh boards, others staring at Del.

"What the blazes are you doing?" Mac asked.

"I can't." Del was breathing hard, as if he had run a race.

"You aren't a quitter," Mac said. "Everyone gets stage fright. Work through it."

"Mac--" His voice scraped. "I'm an empath. A Ruby psion."

"I know that."

"You don't understand." Del's voice shook. "That audience is still getting bigger. Nearly
half a million
people."

Comprehension dawned on Mac's face. "My God. I hadn't--it didn't occur to me. Can you feel them
all?
"

"All of them," Del whispered. "I can't do it."

Mac regarded him steadily. "If you go out there and plummet, you're a professional musician who did his job and had a bad concert. You'll still have the holo-vid and virt deals and maybe someday a chance to perform live when you're ready. If you
don't
go out there, you'll be the amateur who walked out in the middle of a major job. The first won't kill your career. But if you quit now, you're dead. Prime-Nova won't look past it."

Del couldn't answer. He could hardly
think.
But if he went down, he would pull Mac, Jud, Randall, and Anne with him. Staring at Mac, he forced himself to nod. Then he turned around and walked numbly onto the stage. Jud and Anne were still playing the "Sapphire" intro. Del stared at the audience. He raised the mike to his mouth. And he couldn't make a sound.

"Do anything," Mac said in his ear. "
Anything.
"

Del sang one of his lowest notes, three octaves below middle C. Jud matched him on the morpher. With wooden precision, Del went through an exercise so familiar, it was like a well-worn sweater, except he sang
Ba-a-by
instead of
ah-ah-ah.
He climbed the scale, one octave, two, three, four, five. Jud followed him, and Anne kept up her driving beat. Randall stared as if Del had gone out of his mind, but he continued with an understated version of the "Sapphire" intro, matching it to Del's exercise. Del went up and up, above high C. He didn't normally push it that far, but in his terrified daze, he kept going. He stopped after six octaves and just stood. He felt the incredulity of the crowd, a mix of derision, shock, disbelief, and a swirl of other moods he couldn't decipher.

Then he launched into "Sapphire Clouds":

Running through the sphere-tipped reeds
Suns like gold and amber beads . . .

He stood in that one spot, frozen, and sang his entire set that way, his mind turned off so he could no longer think about the nightmare audience.

"I don't understand," Randall said for the fourth time. "How can you shut off that way?"

Del wished he could fold up and die. The lights in their hotel room were dimmed, but it was still too bright. He wanted to lie in the dark and forget what had happened tonight. Or last night, now that it was into the earliest hours of morning.

Randall and Anne were slumped in armchairs facing a table. Del had collapsed on the bed. Jud was sitting in a beanbag chair in the corner, strumming an acoustic guitar. The Spanish music soothed Del, but nothing could really help. Cameron was slouched in a beanbag against the wall, drinking coffee, half hidden in the shadows, until everyone but Del forgot about him. But no bodyguard could protect him against his own failures.

The door hummed and swung open. Mac walked in, paused and stared at them all as the door closed. Then he went over and dropped into one of the armchairs.

"So what did they say?" Randall asked him.

Mac exhaled. "I couldn't get through to Ricki or Zachary. But Linda told me they're pulling the act."

Del sat up. "I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say.

"Del, I don't understand," Anne said. "In rehearsal, you're incredible. What
happened
out there?"

"Don't," Mac said softly. "Let him be."

"Why?" Randall demanded. "Damn it, Del, do you know what any of us would give to have the chance Prime-Nova handed you on a platter? How could you throw it away?"

"It's personal." Del felt like a fool.

"It's not personal," Anne said. "It affects us all. If this was a problem, we deserved to know."

"
I
didn't know," Del said.

"Maybe Prime-Nova won't yank us," Jud said. "I thought this concert went better than the first one."

Randall gave him an incredulous look. "He did an
exercise
."

"How can someone who sings so well," Anne said, "freeze so badly?"

Del averted his gaze. "I'm an empath." Even saying those few words felt like a violation of his privacy.

"Lots of artists think they're Mister Sensitive," Randall said angrily. "It doesn't fucking give you license to blow the best gig any of us will ever have."

"He doesn't mean it figuratively," Mac said. "He's a full empath. On stage, he picks up moods of the crowd. All of them."

"You mean, what people are thinking?" Anne asked. "I've heard of that. But I thought it was a story."

"Not so much what they think," Del said. "What they feel."

She stared at him. "For half a
million
people?"

Del swallowed. "Yes."

"Good Lord," she said. "That would explain a lot."

"I tried to shut them out." Del stared at his hands. "I
couldn't.
I ended up shutting myself down."