The Chaperone Chapter 3, a starcraft fanfic

Chapter 3

A Boston Rockabilly Singer

Tommy woke to the sound of car horns and grumbling city folk. Looking at the digital timekeeper, he saw that the clocks had just struck seven. He gave vent to a tired groan and rolled out of his bed. It had been two days since he had begun working for the Calabas family, and it had not gotten any easier to work with Morgan, who was quickly getting more and more unruly. Thankfully, there was still a five day week on Tarsonis, so he still had two days off. And today was Saturday, so he had some time to himself. Dressing himself in a button-down shirt and trousers, he walked down the steps of his apartment and into the street.

Just as he viewed it three days ago, Tommy was no less amazed at the sight of Tarsonis City. Air-cars racing through the sky to whatever destination their operator determined, and pedestrians hurriedly walking to meet their deadlines with friends and family. The entire place affected the appearance of New York but with a southern drawl. "Crazy." thought Tommy, "I thought southerners were known for their hospitality." But no matter the problem, Tommy felt he could find a solution. Currently, as a growl from his stomach reminded him, his problem was finding breakfast. Traveling down Argo street some distance, he discovered a hole in the wall breakfast restaurant with a small half illegible sign on the door proclaiming it, "Jimmy's".

The food was acceptable to Tommy's taste buds, and he did not feel the urge to throw up after he ate, so there was probably no malfeasance within the meal. He was in one of the poorer sections of New Gettysburg after all. After he ate, Tommy traveled around the city and finally found his way back to Bennet Park and sat down to observe his surroundings. Tarsonis' population was a hopeless tangle of people of every dialect of English from all over the sector. There were various groups of coming to do business with the shipping magnates or industrial barons. And for other, less describable things. Groups of greasy, expensively dressed Tyradorians and rugged Braxisians swaggered from tower to tower, while balding, evil looking vagrants huddled around dark, almost nocturnal alleyways swapping moonshine and cheap cigarettes.

The city was, if Tommy could trust his dictionary, an "ecumenopolis" a world spanning city. The central district, New Gettysburg, certainly was a wealthy borough, with it's well manicured parks, office complexes and palatial estates of business executives and of the Old Families. But further south was the area dubbed "The Gutter" by it's residents, a maze of vicious squalor south of the old Star-port opposite Governor's Peak, with dirty highways descending the slight hill to the lower ground where decayed lengths of Spring and Smith streets lead off toward the Southwest Police District Headquarters. The police in that district were riddled with corruption, indeed many of it's officers were often part time enforcers for the various drug lords and political bosses.

The houses were mostly of Neosteel, dating from the first quarter to the middle of the twenty-fourth century, and some of the obscurer alleys and byways had an alluring flavor for Tommy which the conventional reading of his time might lead one to call "Dickensian". It was a babel of sound and filth, and he could hear it sending out strange cries to answer the beating of tires and boots in it's grimy warehouses and the monstrous organ litanies of the port sirens and alarms. Here long ago a brighter picture dwelt, with clear-eyed mariners on the lower streets and homes of taste and substance where the larger houses line the flatland. One could trace the relics of this former happiness in the trim shapes of the buildings, the occasional small churches, and the evidence of original art and background in bits of detail here and there—a worn flight of steps, a battered doorway, a wormy pair of decorative columns or pilasters, or a fragment of once green space with bent and rusted iron railings. The houses were generally in solid blocks, and now and then a many-windowed cupola arises to tell of days when the households of captains and ship-owners watched the outlying forests that were once prevalent in the northern hemisphere.

Hordes of prowlers reeled shouting and singing along the lanes and thoroughfares, occasional furtive hands suddenly extinguishing lights and pulling down curtains, and swarthy, sin-pitted faces would disappear from windows on the rare occasion that visitors pick their way through. Those policemen that are not already wrapped up in the system of bribery and corruption despaired of order or reform, and sought rather to erect barriers protecting the rest of the city from the contagion. The clang of the patrol would be answered by a kind of spectral silence, and such prisoners as were taken would never be communicative. Visible offenses were as varied as the local slangs, and ran the gamut from the smuggling of rum and prohibited aliens through diverse stages of lawlessness and obscure vice to murder and mutilation in their most abhorrent guises. That those visible affairs were not more frequent was not to the neighborhood's credit, unless the power of concealment is an art for which credit is due. More people entered The Gutter than left it—or at least, as Tommy later learned, left it by the landward side—and those who weren't talkative were the most likely to leave.

Further to the north-west was Hacker's Flat; once a farm district before being integrated into Tarsonis City proper, now it was a working class slum, though not as poor as The Gutter. Most of it's residents worked at the Terra hover-bike plant in the Palombo Valley, though the company was reputedly starting to fall on hard times, as Tommy heard from the patrons of "Jimmy's". By the time Tommy arrived in the city, the street level space was taken up by family-owned bodegas, selling goods that were likely stolen. The sidewalks were cracked, the side passageways reeked of human excrement, and every visible surface was covered with crude graffiti which even laymen would find offensive to every standard of aesthetics. There was one other district, dubbed "The Heights" but it was simply a middle class burg with almost no real defining features.

The entire city had an air of alertness which only the midday heat could bring out, and Tommy gave particular attention to the relatively cheaper dive bars and clubs around the city, the largest of which was the "Trank Club", which had small crowds coming in and going out, some of which had instrument cases of various sizes. "If I was lookin' for a side job, that'd be a great one." he thought half-heartedly. Then he looked up again. "I was trained in music... I loved it and I was dang good at it. But if the accents around here are any indication, the only thing playing will be country." he grimaced, country was his least favorite brand of music. But if he wanted to survive, he'd have to suffer some indignities to get to a healthy life.

Thinking on this, Tommy walked into the club, not excessively pleased with the prospect of having to sing what he as redneck music. The interior was largely simple, a dance floor with tables and a bar to the northern side with a stage one meter above the floor of the club. Near the back of the stage, several young toughs with slicked back hair were carrying guitars and other musical instruments. The manager stood with the amateur musicians, haggling over how much their payments for the various gigs, or if their gigs should even be shown in the first place. The manager was a stocky man in a poor quality suit, smoking a cigarette.

"'Scuse me sir?" Tommy called as he fought his way across the room to the manager. The man looked at him the way one might look at an insect one wishes to step on and get rid of as soon as possible.

"What do you want boy?" he growled. Tommy was increasingly thinking that his idea of trying for a gig had been a mistake. But the time had come. Tommy conquered his qualms and said to the manager: "Well sir, I was thinking that I'd apply for a gig tonight. And I was wondering if you happen to have any spots open for tonight or tomorrow night." Tommy managed to get out before the manager stopped him with a glare.

"We have one spot open. But how do I know you aren't just some brat with a big head?" Tommy was feeling increasingly nervous, was this whole idea a mistake?

But he was a Dupont, and every Dupont worth their salt would persevere and give their all. "There ain't much that'd persuade you. I can't just start singin' but I could come by for auditions, if there are any that is." The manager looked at him and said one thing: "You're lucky boy. Be here at seven." Tommy knew in his heart what that meant. He was on for the night. He was about to thank the manager but the man said, "Don't thank me yet boy. You ain't gettin' payed until I see the crowd likes you. We're short on cash as it is." Tommy thanked him anyway and rushed out of the club and back to his apartment.

Slowly, the minutes trickled into hours as his deadline approached. As the seventh post meridiem drew nearer, he arranged his affairs for the night. First he picked out the best of his, admittedly cheap shirts, and made sure his appearance would stand out enough so as to make sure that he would be received fairly by the audience. Then he fashioned a simple outfit from his jacket and trousers. Finally, he had to find a suitable song. Rushing over to one of the few libraries in his area, he looked through the music section on one of the computers, and looked for something that would be somewhat acceptable.

As he ran an eye over the various songs, he almost missed the small entry titled: "Chantilly Lace- Unknown Composer". This was something he could work with. In fact, it was the one country style song he liked very much, the other being the theme music of Rawhide. He printed a copy of the sheet music for the song, and seeing that it was 6:30, he ran off for the audition. It was a narrow thing indeed, having only two minutes to spare after he arrived, panting, at the Trank Club.

The manager was certainly no more impressed with him when he arrived then when Tommy first met him. Indeed, Tommy's clothes had grown slightly damp with sweat from his run from the library to the club. "You better have a good act boy." he said. "I don't normally give people these spots without much proof, but you seem ernest enough, so I'm willing to give you a shot. Don't make me regret it."

Tommy put on his most confident smile and replied, "Trust me sir, you won't." And he walked up to the stage, handing the music to the conductor of the small orchestra before gripping the microphone. But the manager stopped him before he could start: "I'll only need one verse kid. If I think you're good enough, then you can sing. If not, you're done."

Hello ba~by!
yeah, this is the Big Bopper speaking.

He gave a laugh.

Oh you sweet thing!

As an extra touch, when the next lines came, he first adopted a shocked expression and then a sly one.

Do I what?
Will I what?!
Oh baby you know what I like

Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a pony tail hanging down
That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round~

Here he drew his arms up in a circular gesture.

There ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl
That makes me act so funny, make me spend my money
Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose
Like a girl, oh baby that's what I like

Having finished the verse, Tommy looked expectantly at the manager, who's face was actually breaking out of it's accustomed grouchiness and taking on a genuinely contemplative expression. Then the manager said to Tommy, "What's your name boy?"

Tommy answered back eagerly, "My name's Tommy James Dupont sir."

"Well then Tommy," the manager began, "I thought you would be just another young punk thinking he was hot stuff and could just get anything he wanted. But you've got a good enough voice on you, I'm willing to give you the spot. But make sure you do well when you get up there for the real action. I don't need you getting stage fright." Finally he gave Tommy a small smile. "Son, I take care of my own. You'll be treated right with me." Tommy thanked the manager twice and headed down to another diner to pick up a light snack, he had not eaten lunch.

Then, after he had eaten, Tommy returned to the Trank and entered the back stage area. Cymbals crashed and music of every variety blasted from horns and drums. From disco to jazz, every flavor was present. And this is where Tommy Dupont was preparing to make his entrance into the life of Tarsonis. He was making ready for his performance, when he thought of one last detail. Hurrying to find the stage manager, who was a willowy bird of about the type and tonnage of Lionel Johnson. "Do you think you have any old phones lying around?" he asked.

"Why the hell would you need one?" came the bewildered reply. After all, one doesn't usually just ask out for a phone (or as Confederates called it, a fone) out of the blue. Again, Tommy would roll his eyes at the way some things were done in the Confederacy.

"I'm gonna need one for this performance coming up! Can you help me out here?!" Tommy shouted over the din of the singers and actors jostling for positions in front of mirrors and beauty stands. The stage manager relented and offered up one from an old prop box. Everything was in order, and soon the last act before Tommy's was in the final minute. Tommy felt the familiar shaking of pre-performance jitters. "Just like Starship Troopers." Tommy thought as the seconds ticked away. "It doesn't matter how many times I do this, I'm scared silly every time."

Then he heard the last singer exit, and the announcer's voice filtered in through the wings. "Alright you've been a great audience. Now calm down, here's our last man of the night, but he's itching to strut his stuff. He just got into Tarsonis, here he is ladies and gentlemen, he's the teenage fireball, please welcome Tommy Dupont singing Chantilly Lace!"

"That's my cue." Tommy thought and entered stage right. There was some cheering, however the reception was rather lukewarm. Clearly the audience thought he would be something to wind down the evening and be something not at all impressive. "Well let's see how they feel when I'm done." he thought. He walked gradually, deliberately, up to the microphone. Tommy adjusted the height to suit him and said to the audience, "Evening all. I've already been introduced, so I won't need to tell you who I am, but I do need to tell you just what I like." A bell jingled, Tommy pulled the phone out of his pocket, and it began.

Hello ba~by, yeah, this is the Big Bopper speaking
Oh you sweet thing
Do I what
Will I what
Oh baby you know what I like

Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a pony tail hanging down
That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round

Tommy's routine of having a fake conversation on the phone drew some laughs, but reaching the third stanza, some of the older men smirked knowingly. A young man is indeed vulnerable to feminine wiles.

What's that baby
But, but, but, oh honey
But, oh baby you know what I like

Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a pony tail hanging down
That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round

The rather long-suffering tone in his voice had the men grinning, and by now everyone in the audience was clapping along. Tommy began to feel the familiar exhilaration inherent to a good performance.

What's that honey
Pick you up at 8 and don't be late
But baby I ain't got no money honey
Oh alright baby you know what I like

Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a pony tail hanging down
That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round

The entire crowd was clapping and tapping their feet by the finish, and when the final line came out, the people were wild for rock and roll again. "I feel just like the Big Bopper!" Tommy thought as he bowed and walked back offstage. The rest of the evening was a blur to the youth as he felt hands slapping his back and congratulations being passed around, but he did remember the manager's slight smile as he pressed a small wad of credits into Tommy's hand saying: "Not bad for your first time Tommy. You keep this up and I might just have to give you a raise if you rake in as many people."

As Tommy learned later, the club operated on the money it's patrons gave, both in tips and actual payments for food and drink. Normally, this wasn't too much, but Tommy had brought in a great deal of revenues for beer and other such things, because of the upbeat nature of his song. After he left the Trank, he counted the money he had been given. The amount was in the area of 150 credits, a large enough amount, all things considered. Especially in view of the economic conditions for the middling and lower classes of Tarsonis and the Confederacy at large.

Returning home, wallet full of money, Tommy had a frugal meal at Jimmy's yet again. For he was learning to be quite conservative, due to his constrained financial budget. But as he unlocked his apartment, he felt quite exhausted from the day's events. The cycle was as of a whirlwind, work and every variety of play. "It's too bad I'm underage," Tommy considered, "I could use a beer to celebrate." But no matter Tommy's age, life seemed to have taken on a degree of normalcy for him. Life was... acceptable for Tommy Dupont. Even though he still had not gotten over the loss of his parents, he felt that the universe had at least some degree of kindness.

"This may not be so bad after all."Tommy said to himself as he looked at the Tarsonis skyline, with it's twinkling stars, glowing moons and the ocean of lights in the city below.

And here's chapter 3! I'll try to get more chapters out more quickly, but school's back in season. Anyway, chapter 4 will have some real laughs for you all!