Page 4 of Chloe

Jubal didn’t mind fans. He was grateful for them. It was only because they felt a connection to his music that he wasn’t still bagging groceries back at the Quick-Stop and noodling around by himself on the crappy guitar in Nana’s basement.

He just missed real connections with people who treated him the same as always.

After his videos put him in the spotlight, that group had basically been whittled down to just Nana and his sister, Charlene. His brief but meaningful visits home were filled with watching old movies, cooking gallons of gumbo, and teasing each other endlessly.

In other words, heaven.

But then Charlie had tested positive for a cosmic lax mutation last year.

Jubal had cut short an intergalactic tour to be by her side every moment. He had money and resources now, but none of it mattered. The mutation was extreme, and her time was short.

She razzed him mercilessly to the bitter end, teasing him for the goth-style chains on his horns, his long, rocker hair, what the feeds called his sad eyes, and his embarrassingly goofy taste in holiday movies.

When she had no voice left to tease him with, she thrashed him repeatedly in holo-chess, her beautiful eyes twinkling with glee.

The day they laid her to rest was the closest he ever came to actually trying nano-dust.

Sometimes, he felt like he had buried his happiness with her.

Then, deep into a night of pointlessly scrolling the feeds, he read an article about another Maltaffian who had used a surrogacy agency to conceive a child.

“I’m tired of waiting for my true mate,” the man had said. “And I’m ready to have a family of my own.”

The words had cut through the withered stone that was Jubal’s heart and planted a tiny seed of hope at its core.

And though he knew he was at the height of his career, and in many ways, it was madness, he couldn’t stop thinking about having a child.

He had the means to offer the little one every advantage, including multiple nannies to attend to him or her anytime he was performing or recording.

“Welcome to Maltaffia,” an automated voice said over the speakers as the shuttle came to a gentle landing.

Jubal unlatched his belt and got up, grabbing his duffel and guitar case.

A ramp had lowered from the side of the shuttle. He went to it and blinked back the sunlight for a moment.

Though he was from Maltaffia, Jubal knew nothing about what he was walking into.

The Midsummer Fertility Center was on a huge parcel of land that had been remote to begin with, and was now virtually unknown. Due to the high-end privacy it had bought from the system, the campus was no longer even viewable by satellite map or history.

When his eyes adjusted, he saw he was on a beach. Snow-white sand reached out into crystal-blue ocean.

He jogged down the ramp, and a helper bot met him at the bottom.

“It will be my pleasure to stow your belongings in your rooms, Mr. Ash,” the bot said politely.

“Thank you,” he said, handing them over.

The bot scurried nimbly away, but Jubal did not watch to see where it went.

His fingers began tapping his thighs, almost unconsciously.

The music came to him like an emotion sometimes, flowing from him as he took in something special or new.

He could hear it now, the thunder of an ocean crashing, harmonics like the glistening of sunlight on the surface of the water. This place was a song.

When the rhythm was fully seated in his mind, he pulled up his bracelet and began putting in notes, his fingers dancing on the hologram image.

The next thing he knew, someone was saying his name.

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