Ah, Chris, what are you doing here? Why did you let yourself in for this?
At the end of the Bach, the applause was solidly polite, but nothing more. Barely acknowledging the audience, Christopher introduced the next number as an Irish reel, and immediately launched into another instrumental. This one was up-tempo, energetic, and, to Keith’s ears, monotonously repetitive.
Even so, the audience was good-naturedly clapping, more or less in rhythm, when Christopher’s fingers seemed to forget their place. Though he recovered from the muff, he couldn’t conceal it, and when the tune was done there was as much talk as applause. All around him, Keith could hear the registers falling in place, click-click-click. Whose idea was this? Say, where do you want to go afterward? What time is it, anyway? I think I’ll go get another beer. Come on, Chris, just look out here and sing to me, goddammit, Keith urged silently. Pick a pair of pretty eyes and sing to them. You can’t pretend we’re not here.
But Christopher did just that, through two more instrumental numbers. It seemed he did not have enough confidence to win their confidence, or enough concentration to survive being conscious of where he was. And so he withdrew from them, into himself, as though he were alone in his room.
Secure in that place, he played well, tight-jawed and sure-fingered. But to get there, he sacrificed all emotional rapport with what had started out as an easy room. You’re a musician, not a performer, Chris my friend, Keith thought sadly. And you should have known.
Halfway through his set, Christopher won back a few jury points with a bizarre story-song full of flashy harmonics, called “All Along the Watchtower.” He immediately lost half the gains with an endless and mostly incomprehensible twentieth-century love song involving, as near as Keith could figure, a man, a woman, and a taxi.
His one “contemporary” number, the gloomy AIDS lament “Walls Between,” was marred by a memory lapse that stretched out painfully until someone called out the next line from the audience. By that point, Papa Wonders was looking at his watch with an expression that did not promise any return invitations for the man struggling on stage.
And then something curious happened to that man, a kind of transformation. It was as though, knowing how poorly he had done, he suddenly felt no pressure. And he raised his head. He looked out into the room, looked around the audience. And he spoke to them the way Christopher would.
“One more and we’re out,” he said. “This is the song I really came here to do. I wrote the chorus almost six years ago, when I was still living on the Coast and hearing a lot from my father-none of it good—about the Diaspora Project. The funny thing was, even though I wrote this song for him, he still hasn’t heard it. It never seemed quite right or quite good enough. Actually, it turns out, the problem was it wasn’t quite finished. It wasn’t until last night that I realized there was a verse missing. I like it better now. My father wouldn’t, which means that maybe you will.”
He began to play, simple chords, brisk and rhythmic, a cross between sea chantey and Irish folk song. The preamble was short, and for the first time that night, when he opened his mouth it was to sing to them, not for them:
I was sixteen years and I knew no fears
When three ships’ keels were laid
And from the words of Captain Lee
Sweet promises were made
Come with me, you’ll be flying free
Living in the stars
If you cast your stake and say you’ll take
The caravan to Antares
Christopher sang the first few verses with an innocence, his voice shining with the bright joy of the song’s narrator, strong with the narrator’s bold confidence as his youthful dreams come true. Christopher sang of a glorious sailing, a true cause, a steady course, and they sang the refrain with him:
Look at me, I’m flying free
Living in the stars
Cast my stake and said I’d take
The caravan to Antares
As quickly as that, the audience—or at least the sizable portion from AT-Houston—was with him, caught up at last by something that touched them in a familiar place. Though the song was a romance in a fictional world, they saw, or thought they did, past the disguise. Click-click-click. He’s singing about us. He’s talking about me.
Keith watched with clinical detachment, knowing the turn which was to come. And as Christopher’s voice became harder and the verses darker, the narrator battered by disappointments, disillusionment, the faces of those around him began to be etched by resistance, even anger.
They don’t want to hear it, Keith thought. You can’t tell them that it won’t all be wonderful.
When Christopher sang of a ship destroyed between the stars, he struck them with a body blow. When he sang of hopes dashed by worlds too harsh and too alien, of the survivors wearily searching for a place that might be home, the chorus they had so eagerly taken up had turned on them, its words now cynical and mocking.
My son was born on a sunless morn
In the silent depths of space
What his life will be I can hardly see
In this hellish prison place
Twelve worlds we’ve logged and the best was fogged
With a filthy poison stew
There’s a year to go but today we’ll know
If the next world on might do
Look at me, I’m flying free
Living in the stars
And I curse the day that I said I’d join
This caravan to Antares
The solo riffs that followed had an anger that matched the words. Christopher wrung from the instrument and himself a fury of sound, all ringing strings and hammered notes. He forgot the audience once more, but this time they were with him, whether caught by disbelief or pain.
One crashing chord, and there was a moment’s silence. When Christopher began again, the instrument muted, his voice cleansed of the anger, once more soft with innocence, strong with confidence, as he sang the new verse, the son’s verse:
My father died on Alcestis Five
My mother stayed on Pern
Where we left a throng four hundred strong
Its mysteries to learn
And the Nina’s docked in Kepler’s lock
Round the icy planet Hoth
They’ll warm the air and they’ll seed the ground
And build another Earth
But there’s worlds to know and it’s time to go
I was born to roam the stars
And my crew has sworn that we’ll carry on
With the caravan to Antares
With those few words, he gave them back their illusion, gave the struggle a purpose. And they threw their emotional arms around him and thanked him with an accolade that threatened to lift the slats from the club’s wooden rafters. Keith saw tears on more than one cheek, felt the tightness in his own throat as he clapped and cheered.
Christopher himself seemed drained, overwhelmed. He stood and lifted his hand to them, but his expression was pained, and he did not stay long on stage. The trip down the aisle to the warm-up room had the smell of a panicky flight.
Keith slipped out into the aisle and followed him inside.
“Terrific,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You really got them with that one. A good finish.”
“It’s a lie,” Christopher said, slumping in a chair.
“What? Listen, they’re still clapping. You’ve gotta go back out.”
“You don’t understand,” Christopher exploded. “It was completely cynical. I don’t believe a word of it. I thought they’d cut my throat if I did it the way I always do. I wanted it in the library. I wanted them to like me.”
“Listen. They do,” Keith said. “Go on back out.”
“I don’t have anything more,” he said hoarsely. “Tell Bill.”
“Jesus, Chris—are you sure?”
“I just want to be alone. Can you be a friend and keep people out for a few minutes?”
“Please. Just get out.”
Keith frowned, shrugged, and slipped out through the door. The lights were already coming up, the audience getting up and milling. He lingered in front of the door, winking and waving to friends as they passed by in the throng, catching a thumbs-up from Greg, who was hunched over the replay screen. Keith decided he must look official: Someone asked if he could see the guitar; someone else wanted to know if “Caravan to Antares” had been published. Both were disappointed that the answer was no.
Then he saw a face in the crowd that he had not noticed before, a face he had not expected to see.
“Good evening, Mr. Keith,” said Tidwell when he had drawn close. “That last song was recorded?”
“As far as I know.”
“Have a copy sent to Edkins in Culture. The young man is inside?” Tidwell asked, nodding in the direction of the door.
“Yes.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Can you give him a minute? Chris is a bit wrung out.”
“I understand that.”
Keith hesitated. “He’s an archie, in Building 16.”
“So I understand. Is there a point?”
“You can catch him at your convenience—tomorrow morning, say—”
“Thank you. I would prefer to talk to Mr. McCutcheon now.”
Keith swallowed, nodded reluctantly, and stepped aside. “He doesn’t know who you are,” he added.
“Then I’ll tell him,” Tidwell said, and smiled a tight smile. “Then he will know whom to blame for the intrusion.”
Almost a third of the seats were empty when the lights went down for Bonnie Tevens and Ambika. Daniel Keith watched from behind the annex glass as they took the stage. Their high-gloss black clothing dazzled in the spotlight, but the sounds from their wind controllers were more subdued, aping a traditional flute (Bonnie) and oboe (Ambika).
Shortly, Greg emerged from the darkened club to join Keith at the window. “Where’s Chris?”
“Gone,” said Keith. “Dr.—Tom Grimes, one of the colonists, dragged him away.” Tidwell had had, at most, a couple of minutes in private with Christopher before Ambika arrived and chased the two men from the dressing room. Christopher had little to say when he emerged, and his frame of mind was unreadable, except that he was obviously uncomfortable with the hail-fellow-well-met praise that swirled around him. He and Tidwell had left quickly, almost an escape.
“Is he coming back?”
“It didn’t sound like it.”
“Too bad,” said Greg, rattling the plastic-cased chipdisks he held in one hand. “I made a couple of quick copies for him. Oh, well. I’m going to do some touch-up edits tonight, and he can have the whole banana tomorrow.”
“Let me have one of those, then,” Keith said.
“Sure. I can’t break down until after the second set,” the tech said, peering through the glass. “Are you staying?”
Keith patted the end of the guitar case which was leaning against the wall beside him. “I got custody of Claudia,” he said. “A responsibility I’ll be glad to be done with. I think I’m going to just run it past Chris’s place and go on home. Unless you were really asking for help?”
Greg shook his head. “Sandy’s staying, and that’s all the extra hands I need. Take baby home.”
Outside, a half dozen bodies were blocking the stairs as they shared a pep-pack. They made way for Keith to squeeze by, but only barely, and then went back to passing the stick and giggling. Keith headed down the street toward where his flyer waited.
Halfway down the block, his ears pricked up at the sound of quick, light footsteps behind him. Keith spun around, suddenly on alert, to find himself confronting a redheaded girl in a black leather jacket, short boots, and black jeans. In the streetlight, she was a black ghost with a sallow yellow face.
“You’re not the singer,” she said, her features contorting with surprise.
“No.”
“Damn. Is he gone already?”
“I’m afraid so,” Keith said, and started to turn away.
“Wait,” she said. “You have to tell me something. He’s a Memphis colonist, isn’t he? He has to be.”
“No,” Keith said. “He’s not.” The denial was automatic and emphatic.
“But you’re all from the Project, aren’t you?”
That denial was automatic, too. “He’s from Oregon. I’m from Illinois.”
“I can read,” she said, pointing toward his shirt.
Keith looked down to see his AT-Houston ID dangling from his shirt pocket. “Look—” he began, giving himself a mental mule-kick as he unpinned the badge.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t any secret in there. And I’m a friendly.”
“Look, ah—”
“Jinna.”
“Jinna,” he echoed. “Like I said, Chris is gone. I’m just playing porter for him. Sorry to disappoint you.”
She took a step closer. “I’d really like to meet him. Couldn’t you take me along where you’re taking that?”
“Sorry. I can’t help you.”
Her voice shifted into a husky timbre. “I haven’t given you a reason to yet.”
“Look—”
“Yes—look,” she said, opening her jacket. Underneath, she was naked—or nearly so. From her small rounded breasts to her slender waist she was heavily skin-painted, a feral jungle of flowers and vines intertwined with a sinuous green python. The snake’s glowing eyes—a jeweled piercing through the left nipple, lit with its own light—argued for the painting being a permanent laser tattoo.
She let the jacket fall closed and stepped closer, within arm’s reach. “Is that your flyer?” she asked “Take us up to a thousand and put it on auto. I’ll give you a thank-you in advance.”
Keith shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She reached for his crotch, stroked the fabric over his bulge. “You ought to find out what you’re turning down. Come on, step out of the light and I’ll audition.”
Annoyed at his own response, he pushed her hand away angrily. “What do you want from Chris? What do you think he can give you?”
“I just want to meet him. We’re twins, inside. I could tell it when he sang. We want the same things. We hurt in the same places.”
Keith studied her. “What was your prescreen score?” he asked, guessing.
She held her head defiantly high. “They didn’t test for what I’m best at. And you’re about to make the same mistake.”
“We can’t get you on board,” Keith said bluntly. “Nobody can. No matter how hot a fuck you are.”
“I hear there were sixteen stowaways on Ur.”
“Oh? Did you look that up on DIANNA?”
“You know it wouldn’t be there. They don’t want anyone to know. But I have a friend who knows someone who got on. His parents get dispatch mail every month, but they’re not allowed to tell anyone, or Allied will cut them off. So there has to be a way.”
“If there is, I don’t know it,” Keith said. In fact, there had been twenty-eight stowaways, most of them Takara construction crew or orbital staff. The irrepressible rumors were right, but they had the story all wrong. “I’m sorry, Jinna. I know it hurts. I’m hoping for Knossos, myself.”
“I just want to meet him. To tell him I understand how he feels.”
“You don’t know how he feels,” Keith said sharply. “Songs are stories. Stories are lies.”
Her face took on a desperate cast. “You don’t have to take me anywhere. Just give me his address, so I can call him. So he can decide if he wants to meet me. I’ll still do you.” She pulled her jacket open again, and the eyes glowed at him.
Keith paused, considered. “No. I don’t think he needs that right now,” he said, backing away into the night. “Good night, Jinna.” He gestured with his free hand. “But don’t read me wrong, that is
one truly special snake.”
CHAPTER 20
—UAC—
“… chance and fate…”
For Malena Graham, it had been an adventure, a happy floating party. Leaving the Allied Transcon compound for the first time, riding the tram toward the city of towers, exploring the unfamiliar streets between the Rice station and the club-after six weeks cooped up in the training pressure cooker, it was all delightfully, refreshingly new.
To be sure, the Noonerville nannies weren’t happy about seeing pioneers going into the city, but they did not try to forbid it. Instead, they settled for pressing locator bands on Malena and the others and extracting from them a promise to steer clear of the screamer clubs and the North End neighborhoods.
Tipped that morning by a friendly fitness instructor, Malena had industriously recruited four others for the outing, two from center staff and two other colonists, including, to her surprise, Thomas Grimes. She had half expected she would have to twist Grimes’s arm, and had been unsure that she had a good enough grip to succeed.
There had been no reprise of their lovemaking of a few nights before, nor even much acknowledgment in eyes or words that the encounter had even taken place. At times, the older man had seemed uncomfortable, even embarrassed, in her presence. She had meant to press the issue and find out what was in his mind, but so far he had managed to dodge an accounting.
But when she called him at midday and told him what was happening, Thomas volunteered, “If you’re going, I would like to come along,” even before she could ask. That was a pleasant surprise. She hoped it meant that he had worked out whatever conflict he had over what had been, for her at least, a warm and tenderly erotic time. And though the outing was not really a date, when she dressed, she chose her clothing—outer and under—with an eye to pleasing him, and a thought to how the evening might end.
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