Destiny's Song (The Fixers, book #1: A KarmaCorp Novel)

by Audrey Faye

“Kish.” Her voice was as gentle as I’d ever heard it.

  “He’s meant to be yours.” My words sounded like they came from someplace very far away.

  “Like hell he is.”

  I could feel the window for me to complete my mission clanging shut. “It could work. You like him.”

  “Not really.”

  The warm apples in my belly rolled over hard, and I just wanted to scream. “Don’t freaking lie to a Singer—it doesn’t work.”

  “I’m not lying.” Her eyes flashed blue fire. “I’d started sniffing around that gate, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t walk through every gate I sniff at, and I don’t need to walk through this one.” She paused a beat, her gaze never wavering. “I think you do.”

  Her words were a fist to my already battered gut.

  Janelle gave a disgusted grunt and steered us into a quiet corner. “If I wasn’t such an idiot, I’d have figured it out a lot sooner.”

  “You would not have.” I might have blown the hell out of this assignment, but I knew how to keep my damn feelings under wraps.

  She looked at me again, and her eyes softened. “It’s written all over your face, Kish.”

  I closed my eyes, utterly naked and defeated. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?”

  Her obvious confusion yanked my eyes back open. “Because it’s impossible. Because he’s supposed to be yours. Because I came here with a job to do and I’m not sure I could have blown it more ways if I tried.”

  She shrugged. “So you screwed up. Life goes on.”

  It wasn’t nearly that simple. “The things we get sent to do matter. They’re like the butterfly wings that flap and make a thunderstorm calm down on the other side of the quadrant.” Little levers to do big work.

  Janelle chuckled. “Do all Fixers have such big egos?”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or infuriated that she still wasn’t getting it. “We’re not important, but what we do is.”

  “Fine. You work for a company that has a big ego,” she said wryly. “I get that you folks in the inner planets take all that stuff pretty seriously, but out here we know that life happens and it doesn’t always go the way you planned.”

  I didn’t punch her nose. Barely. “Did you just call me a dumb flatlander?”

  She raised a sharp eyebrow. “Do I need to? You like a guy. Since when is that reason to act like an idiot and stand here spouting stupid lines about the fate of the galaxy?”

  I bowed my head, KarmaCorp ideals at serious war with the siren song my heart wanted so badly to believe. “Neither of us know what will happen if you and Devan don’t connect. There could be ripples all over the universe.” StarReaders didn’t get involved otherwise.

  She shrugged. “We won’t die if the Federation rejects us, and everyone on Bromelain III can take care of themselves. It’s not my job to keep the whole damn ocean smooth.”

  I felt the weight, so heavy I could barely breathe. “That pretty much is my job.”

  “Bleeding hell.” She reached out and grabbed my hand. “I refuse to let any friend of mine sound like a flatlander with a really swollen head. Come on.”

  I planted my feet as well as two miner boots could plant. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are.” Her eyes were flashing blue fire again as she gave my arm a good tug. “We’re going to solve this problem the smart way.”

  I looked at her fisted right hand, prepared to be surprised one more time. “And how would that be, exactly?”

  She grinned. “With chocolate.”

  I could have resisted the fire and the orders, the threats and general bossiness. But even digger boots can’t fight friendship and chocolate.

  -o0o-

  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to move from this spot for a week.” My stomach was stretched in ways I hadn’t known it was capable of. Janelle and I had dealt with the boggy ground of Devan Lovatt and man troubles the age-old way—we’d thrown buckets of food at it.

  Janelle, lounging on a chair beside me, opened her mouth to answer—and then abruptly shifted, her face letting go of mellow and sliding back into the woman who rode the grasslands on a horse and had very few doubts.

  I turned on my chair and ended up eye to eye with Ralph Emerson’s bowl—it was almost as big as his head.

  “Good evening, Singer.” He turned slightly to address my companion. “And to the lovely Mistress Brooker.”

  She nodded, a friendly smile in place and genuine warmth in her tone. “Ralph. It’s good to see you again. Did you bring any of your imps along?”

  He grinned. “Just one—Malia is with me this time.”

  “Ah.”

  A world of meaning packed into one syllable. I watched silently, fascinated by the ripples as two parts of my temporary world collided. Tameka had hinted that there were other sources of power here on Bromelain III. Judging from what I saw in front of me, some of them had the name Emerson attached.

  However, once again, all parties involved seemed pretty thoroughly mired in mutual respect. Whatever the Anthro models said, I just couldn’t see this planet imploding. Too many stable, capable, independent types.

  Ralph turned as the noise from the crowd behind him dimmed considerably. “I believe the evening’s entertainment is about to get underway.”

  Somehow, in my bacon-and-apple stupor, I’d managed to forget why we were here. I followed his gaze, trepidation rising.

  Evgenia Lovatt had stepped into a bright spotlight on the ethereal, starry stage, a state-of-the-art acoustic microphone in her hand. “Good evening, everyone. Thank you for coming on such short notice to help us share our love of music and song with our honored guest.” She gestured my direction, clearly well aware of which shadows I inhabited. “We have a KarmaCorp Singer in our midst, as I’m sure you’ve all heard, come to assist us with our bid to join the Federation.”

  That was an audacious spin. Light murmuring in the audience seemed to suggest that I wasn’t the only one who had noticed. KarmaCorp didn’t align itself with political interests, especially those of a minor outpost colony. Evgenia might have named the reason I’d been requested, but it was highly unlikely that it was the reason I’d been sent. The StarReaders had seen something else—something that mattered enough to have landed in an Ears Only file. I would likely never know what, and neither would anyone in this ballroom.

  Unlike them, I had to believe it was something that mattered.

  I slid off my chair and stepped out of the shadows—Fixers normally hid in dark corners just fine, but my digger-chick instincts didn’t think that was the answer right now.

  “Normally, we let our honored guests sit quietly.” Evgenia paused and looked around the ballroom, gauging interest. Holding attention. “But I have it on good authority that we have a lovely new voice in our midst, and I was hoping she could be persuaded to share a song or two.” She held out a hand in my direction. “Singer, if you would be so kind as to indulge us?”

  I stood pinned to the ground, stupefied. I was a KarmaCorp Fixer, not an entertainer.

  Ralph chuckled quietly behind me. “What did you do to get under her skin?”

  It wasn’t Evgenia I was concerned about—whatever the glint in her eyes might be saying, she wasn’t the architect of this evening. “I don’t sing in public.”

  “That’s one possible answer.” His voice was full of wry amusement. “Perhaps not the most politically expedient one, however.”

  Cart him to hell and back for being right. I’d created enough of a mess on Bromelain III without refusing a direct and very public request from the royal matriarch, even if she was engaging in the body-slam version of diplomatic dancing. Or her son was. I swallowed a goodly chunk of digger-rock attitude and tried to sort out an answer that would keep the imprint of Yesenia Mayes’ boots off my behind.

  Janelle had stepped up beside me, lips quirking, but saying nothing. A friend who let her friends fight their own battles—or fed them hap
pily enough to a certain wolf.

  I fingered my gold headphones, thinking fast. And then I found my tunnel entrance and looked back at Ralph Emerson. “Do you happen to know where Malia is?”

  His eyebrows shot up a little. “Yes.”

  I grinned and let the chick from the digger rock loose. “Good. Grab her and meet me at the microphone, will you? The three of us sounded pretty good together earlier.”

  His eyebrows shot up a whole lot farther—and then his eyes filled with amused respect. “Indeed we did.”

  I spun on the heel of my miner boots and headed for the stage. One fight, or whatever the hell this was, engaged. I hoped the man who had started it was paying attention.

  Evgenia watched my approach and handed over the microphone without comment. I ignored her utterly and turned to face the audience. “Hello, everyone. This isn’t usually part of my job description, so I’ve asked a couple of the people here tonight to help me out.”

  The audience started craning their necks to see. Beside me, Evgenia’s spine got noticeably more rigid. I kept ignoring her, pretty sure she was no match for Malia Emerson.

  Ralph arrived at the edge of the stage first and stepped back to let his granddaughter ascend the stairs ahead of him. Murmurs started in the crowd—clearly at least some of the attendees knew who she was. I flashed her a grin and then crouched down as she arrived at my side, covering the mike. “Will you sing with me exactly like we did this afternoon?” I glanced over at the man just arriving. “Your granddad can take the lead this time, and we’ll both play with the melody he’s singing.”

  “No pressure,” said Ralph dryly.

  I wasn’t worried—I’d heard him sing. “Stage fright?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  I handed him the microphone. Malia and I wouldn’t need one—Talent would magnify whatever vocal chords couldn’t. He cleared his throat and looked out at the hushed crowd. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Ralph Emerson, and you likely know my family from over north way. I’ll be the guy holding the coats while these two lovely ladies wow you with their voices.”

  People laughed, and the watchful energy subsided. Ralph, taking the pressure off all of us with an ease that suggested long experience in front of fractious crowds. He looked down at his granddaughter and winked. “If I sing off key, kick my ankles gently, okay?”

  Malia grinned. “Kicking’s not nice manners.”

  The audience laughed, and those who seemed to know the child laughed loudest.

  My nonexistent entertainer skills were nicely being made redundant.

  Ralph nodded at me and picked up a melody line that I quickly recognized as the one Malia and I had been playing with at the end of her testing. I was impressed—he had it nailed, right down to the trills and tricky harmonics.

  His granddaughter, not shy at all, was already joining in with some high overnotes. Not a lot of volume yet, and she hadn’t let her Talent loose.

  I listened to the two of them, enjoying the interplay—and then I remembered that she was an untrained seven-year-old and got my shit together. Somebody needed to drive this bus. I layered in carefully underneath her high descant. Supporting the audible tones, and encouraging her subsonics into gear.

  She looked over at me and grinned as her heaping Talent came out to play.

  I put up a wave perimeter to hold us steady and tried not to laugh. It was like trying to contain an overly eager puppy—I was getting my metaphorical face licked. Malia’s first-year trainers were going to have their hands full.

  The kid soared up an octave and then swooped down again, puppy in full flight.

  The acoustics were incredibly good. This ballroom might look like a fancy dance hall, but there was no way voices sounded this good in here by accident. Someone had designed this place to be sung in.

  Ralph and Malia had found their groove now, young and old singing a beautiful duet sandwich around my quiet harmonies in the middle.

  Once upon a time, I’d have wanted to be the flash. Tonight, it was perfectly fine to be the most boring person on the stage. I set my hands on the headphones around my neck and sang backup to a seven-year-old and her granddad.

  And then Ralph smiled, took a couple of steps back, and stopped singing.

  Malia and I both turned to look at him, confused.

  He gestured at the two of us, palms up.

  I sent him the nastiest glare I dared with a spotlight shining on our faces. Troublemaker.

  The look he sent me back was utterly bland.

  His granddaughter grinned, turned back toward the audience, and slid her voice up a run that should have had glass breaking except for the sure, sheer beauty of her notes. Not an exuberant puppy anymore. Stardust and auditory magic.

  I did my job and swept up behind her, the steady wind under soaring wings that didn’t yet know what it was to need landing gear.

  When we finished, the audience erupted. I took two steps back to stand beside Ralph and let a gangly girl with shining eyes take her bows. I needed a moment to gather the pieces of my soul back from the heavens.

  This afternoon, Malia had reminded me of why I worked. Tonight, she reminded me of why I Sang.

  A slender man with dancing eyes walked up the steps and took the microphone, ruffling Malia’s hair. “You’re a hard act to follow, kiddo.”

  She laughed and blew him a kiss. “Are you going to sing the one about the silly cow who jumped over the moon?”

  “Maybe. You going to sing with me?”

  She shook her head earnestly. “Not this time—I need to go eat. My tummy is rumbly.”

  We walked off the stage to the opening bars of a nursery-rhyme medley that was clever, irreverent, and clearly well known to the listening crowd. The musicians in the corner were getting in on the action, adding their sounds as harmony, counterpoint, and the occasional barnyard animal.

  I turned to listen, oddly captivated.

  By the time the fifth or sixth person got up to sing, the trend was clear. The range of genres was vast—some goofy, some serious, some folk songs and some tending toward the operatic. But every last person who got up behind the mike had a good handle on how to work notes with their voice. And judging from the loose line forming stage left, there were a whole lot more very competent singers to come.

  I stopped trying to analyze anything.

  My headphones and I had landed in a nice spot in the standing throngs just left of center stage. I stomped my boots to the beat when there was one, shimmied my hips when there wasn’t, and let myself sink into the joy of really good music. I had no idea why there was this depth and breadth of skilled voices on a backwater planet, why it had taken me a week to find out, or why Devan Lovatt had suddenly called them forth.

  But it was apples and bacon for my soul.

  21

  Midnight. So the matriarch of the evening had announced, right before the last singer ascended to the stage.

  The man behind the microphone kept his hands still on the eight-stringed instrument that looked like a second cousin to a guitar, and sang the opening notes a cappella. Quiet, haunting, and glorious.

  I sighed, my heart stuffed full of music and all the things it called up in me. I wasn’t surprised by the skill anymore. Someone on BroThree gave damn fine singing lessons—and Devan Lovatt had absolutely been a student. He had a gorgeous voice, the kind that spoke of dedicated training beneath the carefree ease. He landed like melted butter on the notes, bending them with a grace that took a well-trained diaphragm, a good ear, and some serious practice.

  More importantly for this night, however, he clearly knew how to play an audience. They’d hushed the moment he’d begun to sing, and now, as he tugged at them with the tight runs that headed into the body of the old ballad, they started to lean in. All eyes on the bard.

  Singing to them all. Singing only to me.

  Calling to my jagged heart. Sending beauty and light into the awful, empty space between what I had to do and what
I wanted.

  It was a song I knew. An old folk tune, renditions of which existed all over the galaxy. One of those songs that sounded simple, and could be sung that way. Devan wasn’t singing the simple version. His voice added hints of what, on another night, might be the flute or lute or electric guitar, the subtle embellishments that make a simple melody lush and poetic and captivating. His fingers added soft accompaniment on the strings.

  Singing to them all. Singing only to me.

  I cursed my Song as it started to hum the undertones that would mesh with man and instrument. I wasn’t Devan Lovatt’s backup.

  His eyes found me—and asked me to be something entirely different. A man who had found the seed inside himself. A man trying to figure out what to do with it and what it meant.

  My Talent oozed partway out some tiny crack in my Fixer armor. Begging. For just one song, I needed to be with him, even if no one else would ever hear it.

  And then I saw Malia, two rows ahead and turned to face me, eyes glued to mine. Feeling the disturbances in the force.

  Someone else would always hear.

  So I kept my Talent bound and chained, and listened instead. Reached, heart yearning and soul cracking, to gather up a picture. Something to carry away when I had to go.

  Devan leaned into the lines of the chorus now, a story of love and loss and the fires of home that tightened my throat, blurred my eyes, and squeezed my lungs until oxygen was a long-lost memory.

  And still I listened, drinking in every last note. I would not Sing—but I would hear his Song.

  It began with the same story I’d heard at his stream, one of a boy and the planet he loved, of the waters and grasses that had kept him a healthy child and grown him into a rooted and steady man. But this time, I let myself listen to the rest. The quiet notes of discontent, rising up underneath the main melody line. Not much—the remnants of teenage rebellion against the ties that bound him. A substantial dose of humor, a man who could look at most anything in his life and see the lopsided bits. A man who knew not to take himself too seriously.

  I sighed. Even now, I was avoiding.