"Yeah." She glared at Curtis and launched back into their argument.
Mac gave Del a rueful look as he motioned toward a wall across the room. "Come on. I know a calmer place."
Del's pulse was ratcheting up. "How long until I go on?"
"About fifteen minutes."
"Gods give me luck," Del muttered in Iotic.
Mac spoke in a low voice as they crossed the room. "Del."
"What?" He snapped out the word.
"The chance of anyone here knowing the language of Skolian royalty is tiny, but it's not impossible."
"Oh." Del pushed his hand through his hair. "Sorry."
An arch shimmered in the wall and vanished in front of them. Mac escorted Del through the opening into a quieter room. Jud, Randall, and Anne were already there.
"Del, you look like a ghost," Anne said, laughing good-naturedly. "You okay?"
Randall frowned at him. "You passed Soo's tests, didn't you?"
"I'm fine," Del said. "We all set to go on?" The wall must have turned solid behind him, because the noise from the other room was gone.
"All set," Jud said. He came over and spoke in a lower voice. "Are you?"
"Sure." Del forced a smile. His mind was about to implode, but he couldn't say anything. These three had worked overtime preparing for a concert that just a week ago they had no idea they would be playing. Mac had chosen the best for him, and Del didn't want to let them down.
A woman stepped through a doorway across the room. "Ten minutes," she said. "You can come upstairs if you want."
Randall grinned, his teeth flashing. "Let's go knock 'em dead!"
Jud lifted his hand as if inviting Del to a feast. "After you."
Del headed out and hoped he wasn't the one about to be devoured.
They were crushing him.
The evening sky arched overhead with stars coming out. People were everywhere. Tens of thousands. They filled the area before the stage, crammed tiers of seats beyond, and overflowed the hills. A sea of minds. He was drowning in an empathic flood.
He must have gone to the center of the stage, because he was standing there, holding a michael. His mind sought refuge in a monotonous litany of nonsensical English words he had learned in the past week. Maid, grade, stayed, laid. He couldn't remember his songs. He could only stare at the audience.
"Del, take a deep breath." Mac's voice came over the comm in Del's ear. "Let it out slowly."
Del breathed in, filling his lungs. Then he exhaled.
"Again," Mac said, his voice soothing. Reassuring.
Del breathed slowly. He became aware of music playing. His music. They were doing the intro to "Emeralds." The familiar beat helped calm him. He lifted the mike and thumbed it on. He was supposed to say something, some introduction, he didn't remember what. But he never forgot how to sing. He took a breath and let the words come out:
Green as the bitter nail
They drove into my name
I won't try to fail
Just to satisfy their game
The music from Jud's morpher soared, Anne kept the rhythm on her drums, and Randall finessed the notes on his stringer, sounding even better than in rehearsals. Del went through the song too fast and missed a few words, but he managed.
The mood of the audience was an ocean surging over him. He couldn't separate them into individuals. He didn't realize he was backing up until his legs hit a barrier. He stumbled, looking around, and his voice faltered. He had run into a light amplifier on the edge of the stage. He was so far back, he could barely see anyone in the audience. But he felt them. They didn't understand his song. The music was confusing, they couldn't make out the lyrics, and he had no special effects.
"Del, listen," Mac said. "You have to sing."
Taking a breath, Del lifted his head and sang again:
I'll never listen to the lies
I'll never turn my back on you
Never wait 'til someone dies
To promise my love is true
"Go up to the front of the stage." Mac's voice kept on in his ear, calm and persistent. "Go up."
He tried to walk forward, but he was wading through antagonism. The people didn't like him. They wanted him to finish so Mind Mix could play. He kept singing only because he didn't know what else to do.
After "Emeralds," they launched into an experimental piece Del had been working on with Jud before he had ever heard of Prime-Nova:
Angel, be my diamond star
Before my darkness goes too far
Splinter through my endless night
Lightening my darkling sight
The audience liked this one better than the last, but it was still too different. It only added to their overall impatience. Del shut his mind off then and went into a haze, singing by rote while he drowned in the empathic flood of their moods.
Del slumped in the circular seat at the back of the van while the vehicle hummed through the night. Randall and Anne were asleep in seats up front. Cameron was wide-awake, sitting sideways so he could look over his seat toward the back. Jud, Mac, and Bonnie had joined Del, gathered around the table in the center of the circular seat. The van was driving itself, communing with the traffic grid that controlled Interstate 95 north of Baltimore as they headed to their hotel, to catch some sleep before the next concert.
"What does it matter if I show up?" Del said, depressed.
"Of course it matters," Mac told him. "You agreed to open for Mind Mix at the Philadelphia concert. If you don't show, you're in violation of your contract."
"I'm not backing out," Del said. "But no one will want me to sing when they hear about tonight. I crashed out there."
"You don't know that," Jud said. "It was different, sure, but it might have gone better than you think."
"Believe me," Del said. "I know."
"I thought you sounded great," Bonnie told him.
"Audiences in outdoor concerts always make noise," Mac said. "That doesn't mean they weren't listening."
Jud rolled out a mesh on his lap. As it stiffened into a screen, he flicked up some holicon menus.
"Anything yet?" Mac asked.
Jud scanned the screen. "A lot of holo-chats about Mind Mix."
Del knew the major reviewers were the ones Prime-Nova would read first. "What about the news services?"
"Nothing here—no, wait." Jud paged through several menus. "The Baltimore Solar Site has one."
"What does it say?" Del didn't want to hear, but he couldn't stand not knowing even more.
"Wait a sec—" Jud went silent as he read. Then he said, "It's just about Mind Mix."
"What?" Mac asked. "Nothing about Del?"
Jud looked up with a shuttered gaze. "I guess not."
Del could tell Jud was trying to protect him. "Don't fool with me. Just play it."
Jud met his gaze. "You're sure?"
Del forced himself to nod. "Yeah. I'm sure."
"Can you turn it up?" Anne said.
Startled, Del turned around. Both Anne and Randall were looking over the back of their seats.
"Fine," Jud muttered. "It's Fred Pizwick's column."
A man's voice snapped out of the mesh. "Last night at the Merriweather Post Pavilion, Mind Mix proved once again why they're one of the top groups in the world, with a powerhouse show that left their fans screaming for more." He went on and on about the great performance. Del sat tensely, waiting for the axe, but when Pizwick never mentioned him, he began to relax. Nothing at all was still a negative review, but easier to bear than a slam.
Then Pizwick said, "Unfortunately, last night started on a sour note. Many, in fact. One can only wonder what possessed Prime-Nova to put a shoddy act that crawled out of the undercity on the same stage as some of this decade's most exciting musicians. Billed as 'Del Arden,' and nothing else, Mister Arden showed forty thousand people last night why nothing else appears in his billing. Because he doesn't have it. Don't ask me what he looks like. I've no idea. He hid at the back of the
stage during the entire performance. Don't ask me what he sang; I couldn't understand the lyrics. Don't ask me about his show; he didn't have one. Of course one would never suggest he must have slept his way into this job, but after last night's debacle, we can be pretty certain this is the last of Del Arden we'll see."
Silence followed the review. Del felt the same numbness that came when he hit the ground after an unusually hard throw during martial arts practice. It would start to hurt later.
Finally Anne said, "My God."
Jud made an incredulous noise. "That was vicious."
"Fred Pizwick is known for harsh reviews," Mac said. "But that went over the edge."
Yeah. Right. Del wanted to hide. It was bad enough failing in front of his family. To have it happen in front of so many people, covered by a media outlet that went all over Earth—he might as well just go crawl under a rock.
"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 s
tarted 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?"
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