"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."
"Oh come on," Randall said. "If you're really one of these empaths, why don't you just let the audience in?"
Del looked up at him. "What?"
"Let yourself feel their reactions," Randall said.
Del couldn't believe it. "Why would I want to soak up five hundred thousand people hating what I do?"
"Maybe that's why they hate it," Randall said. "Man, I've seen you practice. You're so mesmerizing, it annoys the shit out of me. When you get on stage, you turn it all off. So why would they like it? Maybe you should quit hiding and take in what they give you. That is, if you really are an 'empath,' and this isn't some half-assed excuse."
"If I opened my mind to that many people," Del said flatly, "I would go catatonic."
"Could you do it partially?" Jud asked. "I read a little about empaths in my psych class in college. Can't you give back what you get from people? I mean, if you picked out someone who liked what you were doing and fed it back to them, maybe you could affect more people."
"I don't know." Del couldn't imagine opening up even to a fraction of that onslaught.
A knock came at the door. Mac looked up with a start. "Are any of you expecting anyone?"
"Not me," Anne said. The rest of them echoed her response.
Frowning, Mac went to the door and touched the ID panel. An androgynous voice said, "Transmission blocked."
"Huh." Mac flicked through a few displays on the panel. "Whoever is out there has a Prime-Nova security clearance."
Del wondered what it said about the people he worked for, that the employees of an entertainment conglomerate needed security clearances. "Who is it?"
"I don't know." Mac opened the door.
"It's about time." Ricki stalked inside and ignored everyone else as she zeroed in on Del. "What the hell went on up there?"
Del scowled at her. "I'm glad to see you, too."
Ricki came over and sat on the bed. She spoke in a softer voice. "What happened, babe?"
"I clutched." He didn't want to ask the next question, but it came out anyway. "Why are you here?"
She started to reach for him, a subtle gesture, then pulled back. "I thought it would be easier for you to hear it from me."
"They're pulling me."
"I'm afraid so."
Del was aware of everyone staring at them. Anne's mouth had fallen open, and Jud stopped playing his guitar.
"Well, well," Randall said sourly. "Maybe Fred Pizwick had it better than we thought."
Ricki turned to him with a gaze that could have chilled ice. "Do you like your career?"
"Yeah, sure," Randall said.
"Do you want to continue having it?"
He watched her uneasily. "Yeah."
"Then shut the fuck up," Ricki said.
Randall reddened, but he didn't say anything more.
Ricki turned back to Del. "You've never been on stage before, have you?"
"No," he admitted. "Never."
She glanced at Mac. "You're a rat, Tyler."
"I told you he had no experience," Mac said.
"You were negotiating," Ricki said. "Convincing us that he had so many people interested, you didn't need to impress us."
"No," Mac said. "I was telling you the truth."
"No one does that in this business." She frowned at Del. "If you get stage fright that bad, why didn't you talk to me?"
"I didn't realize I would f
reeze." His anger sparked. "And when would I have said anything, Ricki? You disappeared after—" He stopped, aware of everyone in the room. "After the Star Tower."
Her voice tightened. "You could have asked Mac to find me."
"Why?" Del was as bewildered as he was angry. "Why not tell me how to reach you?" In a low voice, he said, "If someone walks out on me, I'm not going to chase them."
"Most men would have, for Ricki Varento," she said.
"You're worth it," he murmured. "But I don't grovel." Hearing the words, he wondered if the personality of a Ruby prince was far more ingrained in him than he had wanted to admit.
She rubbed her eyes. "No, I suppose not."
"The next concert is New York." Del didn't know what he was going to say until it came out. "Give me one more chance."
Ricki raised her sculpted eyebrows. "You want us to let you on stage again? After what happened the last two times?"
"I can do it." Del thought he was insane, but he wanted this too much to give up. "I didn't have any idea what would happen that first time. For the second one, we were late, and I didn't have time to prepare." He took her hand, knowing how it looked, but the hell with what the others thought. "I can do it."
"It's not my decision, babe."
"But what you think matters." He had seen how people reacted when they found out Ricki Varento produced his vids. Her power went far beyond the studio. "If anyone can talk Prime-Nova into it, you can."
Ricki pulled away her hand. "Maybe I don't want to. If you plummet again, that's it. You might never tour again. Maybe you ought to let it go, before it gets any worse."
"It won't." Del pushed aside the misgivings flooding him. "Tabor and I have been talking about a way I might beat this problem. I can do it."
"We're playing the Cosmos Stadium in New York," Ricki said. "It isn't our largest venue, but it's one of the most important. You're going to have critics from every major mesh outlet there. If you bomb, they'll pulverize you."
Jud spoke from the corner. "This second concert wasn't a disaster. He sang better than the first time."
"He walked off the stage," Ricki said sourly.
"It won't happen again," Del told her.
Mac spoke. "Are you sure, Del? You told me a week ago you could do this, and now you regret that decision. The same thing could happen if you go on in New York."
"And Mind Mix is pissed," Ricki said. "Tristan and Tackman want you off the tour."
"What about Rex?" Mac asked. "He's the front man."
"Rex thinks Del is brilliant," Ricki admitted.
Del almost fell off the bed at that. He said nothing, though. He could sense only the outermost shell of Ricki's mind, but he could tell she didn't like being pushed.
Ricki glanced around at Jud, Anne, and Randall. "You all want to go on stage with him in New York?"
Jud answered immediately. "Yes. Absolutely."
"I'd like another shot at it," Anne said.
Ricki considered Randall. "What about you?"
After a pause, he said, "Yeah."
"How are the reviews for last night?" Ricki asked.
"We haven't looked," Anne said. With a grimace, she added, "We weren't up to it."
"I need to hear them before I decide," Ricki said.
Jud put down his guitar and unrolled a mesh screen across his knees. After a few moments, he said, "I've one from the Inquirer. They liked Mind Mix. This is the part about Del."
A man's voice rose into the air. "The opener, Del Arden, was a puzzle. He ran onto the stage and literally stumbled into his first song, so out of breath you could barely hear him. Quite frankly, the boy looked terrified. Given that no record exists of him ever playing any venue, it isn't surprising he flat-lined in front of such a large audience. One wonders why Prime-Nova put him up there. Or maybe not. Because whatever his faults, this boy can sing. Let's hope that in the future, Prime-Nova better prepares its talent."
"That wasn't so bad," Anne said, looking hopefully at Ricki.
The producer just grunted.
Del could see Jud reading something else on the screen.
"You find another?" Ricki asked.
"Not yet," Jud said, avoiding their eyes.
"Stop protecting me," Del said. "Read the blasted review."
Jud looked up. "It's Fred Pizwick."
"Pizwick is an asshole," Ricki said.
"Why is he reviewing a Philadelphia concert?" Randall asked. "I thought he worked the Baltimore circuit."
"Hundreds of mesh services carry his column," Mac said. "He covers whatever he wants. And apparently he wants Mind Mix."
"No he doesn't," Ricki said. "He came to crow over Del."
That surprised Del. "Why? Do you know him?"
"Not well," Ricki said. "But enough. He wanted to be an opera singer, but he couldn't make it even with voice augmentation. He's going to hate you no matter what you do. I'll bet he saw your talent as soon as you started singing. And here you are, 'wasting' it on holo-rock. It's the ultimate insult to someone like him."
"Do you want to hear his review?" Jud asked.
Ricki glanced at Del.
"Yeah, go ahead," Del said. He would have rather been hit by a cement block, but if he wanted another chance, he had to know what the decision makers at Prime-Nova would hear about him.
Pizwick's voice invaded the room. "If you paid money to hear the warm-up in Philadelphia, please accept my condolences. I'm often astonished by what undercity hacks stoop to calling music, but it goes from outrage to robbery when Prime-Nova charges people to hear vocal exercises. Yes, that's right. Last night the good citizens of Philadelphia were subjected to Del Arden standing like a frozen carp, running through exercises even his beleaguered vocal coach must find painful. Adding insult to injury, he was using a bob, or for those of you less familiar with music terms, a Roberts Enhancer. The device augments the human voice, making someone sound as if, for example, he has an increased vocal range. So we witnessed the embarrassing charade of a boy pretending to a six-octave range. Mind you, this was after our dear amateur stormed off the stage in the middle of a song. Has Prime-Nova lost its collective mind? Mercifully, rumor has it that the 'remarkable' Del Arden has been yanked from the lineup. Thank God."
"For crying out loud," Anne said. "That's beyond harsh. I can't believe they published it."
"Oh, people love that stuff," Randall said. "They're probably arguing it all over the mesh."
"He's lying," Del said angrily. "I've never used an enhancer."
Ricki's face was thoughtful. "We may be able to start some bad press against him on that one. You can't protest a reviewer saying he doesn't like your work, but if he misrepresents it and then suggests Prime-Nova defrauded people by charging for the performance, he's going over the line."
"He's caused a stir," Jud said, reading from his screen. "It looks like several other reviews mentioned Del using a michael. People are either lambasting Pizwick for sloppy reporting or else cheering him on."
"Can you find one of the other reviews?" Ricki asked.
"Yeah, I think so—" Jud fell silent, then said, "Okay, this is Lynne Kalowski with North American News Media."
Randall let out a whistle. "That's big time. And she never reviews holo-rock."
A woman's voice rose into the air. "—went on before Mind Mix. In many ways, it was an unremarkable opener. Like many of the concertgoers, Arden was caught in the traffic-grid meltdown south of Philadelphia last night. His band arrived late, but gamely ran onstage and launched their act. Arden left the platform not long after, one assumes to catch his breath."
Then she said, "What followed has to qualify as one of the strangest chapters in holo-rock history. Arden came back and sang a glorified exercise. But oh, what an exercise. He soared through over six octaves, encompassing the entire range of the normal human voice, both male and female. He used nothing more than a michael, a simple amplification device. In response to my inquiries, a Prime-Nova spokeswoman allowed me to exami
ne Arden's equipment to verify it didn't augment his voice. Why this boy is doing rock, I have no idea, but it was worth sitting through a form of music I normally avoid for those glorious moments of virtuosity."
Anne burst out laughing. "That's great! She hates holo-rock anyway, so even if we sucked slime, it wouldn't matter. He did something she liked, so that's all she reviewed."
Ricki's smile was more predatory than amused. "She'll make Pizwick look like a fool."
Although Del was grateful for a positive comment, he had heard this one all too often. Why waste your talent on that noise? He wanted someone to appreciate the music he loved, not the music they wished he would do.
"Here's another one," Jud said. "It's from Jason Mulroney."
The voice of the undercity critic came on. "—same opener as last night. This time I had a better chance to listen to the lyrics. I was struck by the comparison between Arden's songs and the usual Prime-Nova fare. Consider this verse in a ballad written by Arden: 'Born to live in a vanished sea / Lost to seeds of a banished need / Caged in desperate hope for all days / Rubies must give their souls in all ways.' Now a typical verse from Mind Mix: 'Yeah, baby, yeah, baby, yeah / uh-huh, baby, love me, uh.' Sure, Mind Mix sings it with all the bells and holos, a great tune, and plenty of effects. But so what? The lyrics are still stupid."
Anne had been taking a sip out of a mug she had picked up, but at Mulroney's last statement, she spluttered coffee all over the table. "I can't believe he wrote that."
"I've no idea what Arden calls his song or any of the others he did," Mulroney continued. "He never once gave titles or otherwise addressed the audience. He looked more frightened than anything else. But he went through an entire set with similarly involved lyrics. I would love to get him in for an interview to find out what they mean. Let's just hope this artist gets over his stage fright soon and really starts performing."
"Mind Mix is not stupid," Ricki grumbled. "They compose by sound, not word. Their artistry is in how it all fits together."
"Oh come on, Ricki," Mac said. "You can't compare what they do to Del's work."
"He wants to interview me!" Del said.
"We'll put the PR people on it," Ricki said absently, lost in thought. She considered Del. "With those reviews, I can argue with the higher-ups to give you another chance." Her gaze turned to steel. "But if you plummet this time, that's it. You got it?"