From the Street to the Stars (Andy Nebula: Interstellar Rock Star, Book 1)

Chapter 4: Paris Paradise

Six months passed in a blur of performances, interviews, rehearsals, and travel, but every night I felt that same surge of exhilaration just before I went on, as the crowd thundered, the synths built the pounding backbeat, the lasers flashed through the smoke, and the dancebots whirled. I was the detonator of a bomb; when I stepped on stage, things exploded.

At the end of the six months, we were on Carstair's Folly, the fourteenth stop in my triumphant tour of the Pleasure Planets. I stood in the wings in my mirrorcloth skintights until the crowd was threatening to tear down the soaring gossamer roof of the acoustic tent, then I gave the signal, the computer shouted, "Ladies and gentleman—Andy Nebula!", and I burst onto the stage and ripped into my sizzling opening dance, while the dancebots fell back in shock and phantom stars exploded overhead.

We had 125,000 people there that night and I felt good as I finished my bows and made my exit, the crowd still chanting, "An-dy! An-dy! An-dy!"

Qualls waited backstage; unusual, but not that unusual. "Hey, Qualls," I shouted above the crowd noise. "They still love me."

"Come in here a minute, Kit."

I followed him into his soundproof office, and he pointed me to the formchair across from his silver-topped desk. I sat down gingerly—I hate the way those things flow to conform to my butt. "What's powering, manager-man?"

"Cut the slang, Kit."

"Hey, that's my homebabble, glad—"

"I said cut it!"

I cut it. "What's wrong?"

He sat down and pulled a whirligig bottle from a drawer, along with two glasses. He filled them both and pushed one to me. I took it, but my stomach fluttered; Qualls never risked heat from the local 'forcers, and on Carstair's Folly legal drinking age was nineteen standard Earth years, and I was (by my best estimate) still only seventeen. Here, serving an intoxicant to a minor, even an intoxicant as weak as whirligig, could land you in jail. Still, the cold fizzy liquid felt great going down. I drank half of it in a gulp, burped, then lowered my glass to see Qualls staring moodily into his own. "Well?" I said.

"You saw the crowd tonight, Kit."

"Looked good. The tent was full."

"Tents are always full, Kit... because you can move the walls."

I stared at him. "What?"

"Capacity is 200,000. We sold two-thirds of that. You weren't a sellout, Kit."

The fluttery feeling in my stomach grew. I guzzled more whirligig, but the fluttering didn't go away. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and set down the glass with a thump. "That's... what? 130,000 tickets? More than twice the size of the crowd at my debut. At a hundred feds apiece, that's still not exactly biowaste!"

"Maybe. But it's the first time Andy Nebula hasn't sold out."

"The next planet—"

"Ticket sales are slow. I just got a call from Mr. Korpov."

I wondered if I could get Qualls to serve me something stronger than whirligig. Korpov was the CEO of Sensation Singles, Inc. "He's fading me out?"

"Not yet. You've got four more concerts, no matter what. But if you're not back to sell-outs by that fourth gig... "

"Yeah, I know." I'd always known. None of this could last. Sensation Singles were like non-repeating comets; one blaze of glory, then cold oblivion for eternity. "The crowds will come back, Qualls. I'm sure of it."