The audience’s shrill cheer cuts through her words. Just shrill, all-hell-loose screams. I’m pretty sure my costar Jessica Stone—sweet, popular, with an indie-film track record that’s way more impressive than my Seaside Cove stint—gets a crowd that’s a lot…calmer. Her dude followers don’t draw I HEART JESS on T-shirts, they just…well, never mind. I don’t really want to think about the creepy Google searches of Jess Stone fans. Our crowds are different, end of story. The Starfield director, Amon Wilkins, of giant robot movie fame, probably figured she would bring in the coveted awards attention and accolades. But I guess I’ll find out soon enough, since we start filming tomorrow.
As for me? I apparently bring an army of monsters to a beloved cult fandom. My fans call themselves SeaCos—or maybe it’s Darienites. And today? This is a publicity stunt. This is my manager and PR team at their finest.
Scotty can beam me up anytime now.
That’s the thing too. I know I’m not the first young guy to take over a character that people already love. I’m sure Chris Pine had people who didn’t like him because he was Kirk 2.0. But I’m different. I’m eighteen. He was twenty-something. He had time to refine his No Fraks Given. I still worry about matching my socks and making sure no one uncovers my Star Wars boxers. Plus, right now, my hands are clammy and I think I’m starting to sweat, and sweating during a televised interview is the worst possible thing you can do.
Breathe in, breathe out. You can do this, Darien.
The stagehand rounds back and corrals me up the steps to the stage. He starts counting down with his fingers.
Five…four…
I smooth my blazer. Swallow my anxiety.
“And now let’s welcome our next guest to the stage,” one of the cohosts says, quieting the crowd, “the young actor better known as the king of Seaside Cove”—Holy Ego-Crusher, Batman, that knocks off all my street-cred—“and now picking up the mantle as our favorite royal from the stars, Federation Prince Carmindor…Darien Freeman!”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Put on a smile.
Like a superhero donning a mask, I step out of me and into Darien Freeman, swallowed up by the ravaging screams of five hundred teenage girls.
THE BEAUTIFUL FACE—ANNOYINGLY BEAUTIFUL, the kind you’ll remember because it’ll be plastered on every fragrance ad and billboard for the next ten years—of Darien Freeman stretches across the entirety of my stepmother’s 54-inch plasma TV, grinning in an easygoing sort of way. Brown skin, long eyelashes, curly hair. He might look the part, but his smile’s so bright it’s almost blinding. Not dour, brooding Federation Prince material. Not even cut from the same cloth.
Carmindor smiled only once in all fifty-four episodes. At Princess Amara in episode 53. The episode before—
No, no. No one thinks about that last episode, let alone talks about it. It never happened. I even blacklisted any mention of it from my blog.
Rockefeller Center is crowded with Starfield blue and silver. A gaggle of fangirls in the front row wave around STARCRUSH ME! and I WANT TO WABBA-WABBA WITH YOU signs like they’ve all watched the interstellar missions against the Nox firsthand. Which they haven’t.
Even I haven’t.
Dad, though…he was there from the beginning. The original fanboy. He even started a convention for it. ExcelsiCon. We went every year. I remember meeting the aging cast, getting my stargun signed. Hiding it in my book bag during school. Waking up every morning to Dad’s alarm clock playing the theme song. Eating Wabba-Wabba Flakes for breakfast (which were really Frosted Flakes, but six-year-old me didn’t know the difference). Stargazing in the summers and pretending to defeat the Nox in our backyard. Saving the galaxy from being sucked into the Black Nebula…
Living with Dad was like living in a universe where the Federation Prince Carmindor existed.
And then—in the blink of an eye—that universe vanished.
My finger hovers over the POWER button on the remote, but I can’t seem to look away. How will Seaside Cove fans clash with us Stargunners? It’s like seeing two souped-up racecars headed for a collision at full speed—I have to watch.
Leaning back in the comfy-looking chair, Darien Freeman waves—a little shy, a little taken aback—to his sea of fans as the cohosts welcome him to the show. I’m sure he thinks it’s cute.
“It’s great to be here,” Darien Freeman begins. His fans screech like ambulance sirens: “I love you, Darien!” and “Marry me!”
Ugh, gag me.
One of the cohosts, a guy with a massive chin, says, “We’re so excited to have you! I remember—and this might date me—but I remember staying up late just to watch the show. It’s a classic! How do you feel stepping into a role as big as Carmindor?”
The actor smiles. His teeth are too white, his lips too balanced—I bet he practices it in the mirror. “It’s an honor, for sure,” he says, even though he wouldn’t know a classic if it shot phaser cannons at him. “And I’m looking forward to stepping into Carmindor. Big shoes to fill.”
“Big boots, you mean,” I say to no one. David Singh was phenomenal. A barrier breaker in the days when almost no other sci-fi shows had a lead actor of color. An advocate for human rights, onscreen and off. A man who tell truly believed in the philosophy of Starfield.
“Well, unlike Rick here, I never watched Starfield,” says the second cohost, a petite woman in a white pantsuit who probably doesn’t mean to look like a Stormtrooper but totally does. “But it seems like everyone knows about it these days! That motto—how does it go?”
“Look to the stars. Aim. Ignite,” Darien says. “And I hope you become a fan. Starfield has a little something for everyone. It’s a story about the good ship Prospero and its crew as they fight to protect the galaxy and uphold the standards of peace and equality. Oh”—he grins—“and fight aliens.”
“That sounds downright terrifying!” The cohost gasps. I roll my eyes. “Fight aliens” is not how I’d describe facing down the Nox King—technically the humans are the aliens in the series. But then again, I’m an actual Stargunner.
“Now, don’t hate us for this,” the cohost goes on, “but we like to play little games on our show, and since you seem to know so much about Starfield, I thought I could challenge you to Dunk Tank!”
The camera pans wide to a water-filled booth with a bull’s-eye on the side. The camera cuts back to Darien, looking—well, faking—a shocked expression. “Oh man! Really?”
“Of course!” Then the cohost reaches behind her chair and pulls out a water gun. “Let’s see how well you can school us in Starfield! Every time you get an answer wrong, I get to take a shot at you.”
Oh, I think. This’ll be good. There’s no way he knows anything about the series beyond its name.
The crowd begins to chant in a loud, raucous voice. “Dunk tank! Dunk tank! Dunk tank!”
Darien throws his arms out to the crowd dramatically. “Really? Really? You want to see me get dunked?”
“Dunk tank! Dunk tank!” the crowd chants, and I have to agree.
“What do you say, Darien?” the woman host asks, grinning.
He sighs, hanging his head—acting all oh, fine, let’s get this over with. Then he slaps his hands on the side of the armchair and stands, shrugging out of his expensive-looking blazer. “All right! You’re on.”