Shit. The whole damned planet was practically empty, and everyone wanted to crowd up on my little hill.
"I could fire her," Helena's thoughts went on. "Slit her throat. No, there isn't another decent backup singer within a dozen parsecs. Not with perfect tits. Damned perfect tits. Alex, there's more to life than tits, isn't there? After everything I've…but it isn't Alex's fault. He's just this big simple…" The next thought wasn't a single word, but a montage: man, child, baby, bumpkin, son, lover. And there were images too—Alex grinning, with spaghetti sauce dribbling down his chin; Alex looking up as Helena's hand brushed hair from his eyes, Alex's face looming close in a darkened room. Underneath was Helena's soft fear that she was losing him, that she couldn't compete with younger women, that she was growing old.
Suddenly, like Silk going
She'd taken a flashlight with her when she'd set out to look for Alex. Now she waited till the last moment to turn it on, hoping the sudden light would startle me. I stared up calmly as she shone it into my eyes.
"Hello, Lyra."
I nodded. "Helena."
"Doing some impromptu excavation?" she asked, making a show of looking at the freshly turned dirt.
"The search for knowledge never sleeps," I answered.
She shone the light into the hole. It lit the unearthed box more distinctly than the starlight. I could see that one of the compartments was completely lined with sticky white powder from exploding Silk. The other compartment wasn't as empty as I'd thought. Tiny bones littered the floor, with one skeleton intact enough to recognize as the remains of a Caprochian parrot.
"Looks like an important artifact," Helena said. "A trash bin."
"The search for knowledge sometimes craps out." I shrugged.
"What about you and Alex?" she asked. "Was that a search for knowledge too?"
She wanted me to be surprised by the question. Thanks to the parrot, I wasn't. "I don't know what it was with Alex," I answered honestly. "Just one of those things. I was feeling pretty needy at the time."
Her thoughts shouted, "Selfish bitch!" but aloud she said, "Your needs aren't Alex's needs."
"I didn't hear him protesting," I replied. But my background chorus told me I knew that was no excuse.
"Alex is a sixteen-year-old in a twenty-five-year-old's body," Helena said. "He's not going to fight off any woman. He may even initiate the…festivities. He may have initiated things with you, I don't know—the starlight wasn't quite bright enough for me to see."
"I don't know who initiated what," I told her.
"The point is, Alex is a little boy who never grew up." She faked a laugh. "Do you realize that he proposed to me after our first night together? He thought it was required, the only gentlemanly thing to do after ravishing me. He has this terribly constricted background…I bet he was too shy to take off his shirt, right?"
"True." And I was glad he didn't. If unbuttoning his shirt released the Singer…
"He's so unsophisticated," Helena said, nodding, "and that's why there's a problem. I'm a broad-minded woman, I don't own him…" Her thoughts yelled, "He's mine!" and added softly, "Why can't he just be mine?" She put on a brittle smile and said, "Alex can't handle the complications of dealing with both of us. Someone like Roland…" I picked up a snap memory of Helena in bed with Roland. Well, well. "Roland wouldn't get hung up about an idle one-night stand. He's not one to confuse sex with loyalty. But Alex…he confuses easily. You see?"
"See what?"
"That someone is going to get hurt. Certainly Alex, and maybe you. Not me," she added airily. "I don't get hurt. I just have to pick up the pieces."
"Noble you."
"Noble me." Internally she debated whether to threaten me. She could fire me, and could probably arrange that the major recording labels wouldn't let me into their studios; but backing me into a corner held too many risks. Especially when she believed I could steal Alex with one nudge of my nipples. So keep it cool, keep it sophisticated, woman to woman, one tuck-and-tumble doesn't have to mean anything.
"If I were you," she said, "I'd tell him this was just a brief…weakness on your part. You could say you were under the influence of some fiendish psychological weapon still at work on the battlefield. A lust gun. Makes you rut like a mink in heat no matter how ridiculous you look. No matter how damaging it might be for your career. Lust grenades. Lust lasers. Alex would believe that."
"You don't give Alex enough credit."
"I give Alex all the credit," she replied. "I do the work, he gets the credit. If you want to start a tug-of-war, Lyra, you may pull Alex away from me. But without me, he's no star. He's just a not-too-bright guy with a so-so voice. Not a great catch, believe me."
"What about the Singer?" I asked.
Her thoughts shriveled. Fear. Cold fear so sharp and similar to mine I jerked my hand away from the parrot. "You can have the Singer," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "If you can catch the Singer, he's yours."
She turned abruptly away and started walking toward the edge of the hill. Without turning, she called back, "I'm sure you'll do the right thing, Lyra. The smart thing."
I watched till she was gone. At the last second, I brushed my finger across the parrot. On the surface, Helena fretted about me watching her walk away—she was sure I was laughing at her, at her hips and ass thickening with middle age. But deeper down ran a current of terror: wordless, imageless fear of the Singer.
Her thoughts echoed my own.
When she was gone, I made my way in the same direction, keeping my hands off the parrot. Even so, the parrot dominated my attention…like when you meet someone who's completely wrong for you and you know he'll screw up your life, but every minute of the day you find yourself thinking about him. Not love, not lust, and you know you're too sensible for obsession; but you still keep turning it over and over in your mind. I could laugh at how I was getting in so deep with the parrot, I could tell myself it would only take a tiny effort of will to set my parrot free…
But I didn't do it. Fixations can be sweet.
Following Helena's footsteps through the dew soon brought me back to camp. Music played in the main Quonset hut, the timeworn feel-good classic "Orange Puppy," recorded by "Vivaldi's Love-Child." That meant the hut had been taken over by roadies—only they were old enough to play such a rusty dusty nostalgia number. I could imagine them sitting around, wearing sloppy T-shirts from old groups like "Madrigal Canyon" or "Freckles on a Green-Eyed Girl," and saying spiteful things about the music scene today.
I considered joining them, but didn't think I'd be up to eavesdropping on a crowd. Besides, what could the parrot tell me that I couldn't guess myself? The roadies all said exactly what they thought the moment it crossed their minds…except for the wet-dream fantasies a few of the guys had when they looked in my direction, and who needed telepathy to pick up those?
Instead, I turned toward the huts that served as sleeping quarters. The nearest belonged to Alex and Helena, but I didn't want to see either of them again tonight. A few meters farther was the hut that songwriter Roland shared with our equipment manager. The equipment manager would surely be keeping company with the rest of the roadies, and Roland would be alone.
I knocked on the door.
"What?" The question sounded angry, but Roland always sounded angry.
"It's Lyra," I said. "Are you busy?"