The Stardance Trilogy

by Spider

  Colly’s favorite part of the tour was what she instantly dubbed the Blob: the Shimizu’s famous zero-gee swimming pool. Located at the very center of the hotel for reasons of orbital stability, it was essentially a large spherical tank, thirty meters across, containing 210,000 liters of crystalline water and happy people.

  Of course Colly insisted on going in. You donned breathing and comm gear and four fins, and entered through an airlock. Inside, it was preternaturally beautiful: artistically colored lights were deployed all around and blended to produce shifting effects, and the tank was stocked with multihued fish of tropical breeds—robots, of course, but no less brilliant or beautiful for that. They were absolutely impossible to catch, or even touch: Colly spent a happy time trying. Rhea enjoyed herself almost as much as her daughter. Afterward in the dressing room, Colly announced that air bubbles were prettier in free-fall—and acted more interesting too.

  What Rhea thought was that swimming in P-Town was better—whether you did it on the ocean or bay side. But she kept the thought to herself.

  When they rejoined Duncan, the first thing Colly said was, “Duncan, how come you don’t have muscles, like Daddy?”

  “Colly!” Rhea began.

  But Duncan cut her off, smiling. “I know that would be a rude question on Terra—but things are different in space. Here it’s just a good question.”

  Colly looked pleased. “So what’s the good answer?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t need ’em. Earthworm muscles—excuse me, Terran muscles—are worse than useless up here. You don’t need that much power, and you keep hurting yourself, by pushing off too hard.”

  “Oh.” Colly looked down at her skinned knees, and rubbed a banged elbow thoughtfully. “I knew that: I was just testing you.”

  “Can I ask you a question now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Back there in the pool—why did you like those angelfish so much?”

  “They kept making, like, a flower,” she said. “You know, tails together but each head pointing out a different way, like a puffball.”

  “Don’t real angelfish do that on Terra?” he asked.

  She stared at him. “How could they? Some of them’d be upside down!”

  He blinked, and grinned. “Isn’t that funny? I knew real fish can’t live in free-fall, because they die without a local vertical to align to; I’ve read that. But I didn’t follow it through and realize they wouldn’t ever make puffballs down there.”

  “That’s the difference between book learning and experience,” Rhea said, seeing a chance to make this a lesson for Colly. “Duncan was born in space. He knows a lot, but you know things he doesn’t.”

  “And vice versa,” he agreed. “That’s why I’m here. Over the next couple of days you’re both going to get real tired of hearing me repeat certain things. Free-fall safety, vacuum-drill, flare-drill, p-suit maintenance, things like that. And you’ll tell me that you know all that stuff, and you’ll be right. You know it as book learning. So let me keep bugging you, okay? Otherwise you may get in some kind of trouble, from not expecting angelfish to make a puffball.”

  Colly nodded solemnly. She had been watching the way he handled himself in zero gee, and trying to copy his movements, but from then on she would ask his advice, and take it.

  “For instance, both of you put in your earphones for a second.”

  Rhea and Colly both complied.

  “I want you to hear a sound without others hearing it. Listen—” He touched a pad at his wrist, and they heard a distinctive warbling shriek. “If you hear that, you have less than twenty minutes to get here to the pool. If you’re late, you’ll die. It means a bad solar flare is on the way—and this pool is also the Shimizu’s storm shelter.”

  “How long do they last?” Colly asked.

  “Anywhere from eighteen hours to three days or so.”

  “We might have to swim for three days?” She didn’t seem alarmed. Rhea certainly was.

  “Oh, no! They pump the water into holding tanks all around the pool, so it’ll do the most good as shielding.”

  “That thing is huge,” Rhea said, “but is it really big enough to accommodate twelve-hundred-odd people for up to three days?”

  “If they’re friendly,” he said with a grin. “Don’t worry: most flares you’re ever liable to see, you can deal with by just getting into the radiation locker in your suite. It takes a Class Three flare to empty the pool, and that hasn’t happened in my lifetime. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t in the next ten minutes—but they’ve got some real sharp folks modeling the sun nowadays, plus the Stardancers keep a couple of angels way in past the orbit of Venus all the time, keeping an eye on the old girl. They can send a telepathic warning back to Earth orbit instantly, a lot faster than a radio or laser message: when Mama Sol clears her throat, we get a lot better warning than you get of a quake in San Francisco. And in any emergency, trained men in radiation suits will chase down stragglers and sleepers. But—and this is what I was talking about before—you can’t ever leave safety to machines and other people. Sometimes they goof. If you ever start seeing green pollywogs—little green flashes in your vision—get into that locker, fast. Don’t wait for the central computer to tell you to…and don’t stop to pee.”

  After lunch he took them to Wonderland. Both ladies found it delightful. As you approached it, the first thing you noticed was a child-sized white rabbit a little ahead of you, wearing a vest and consulting a pocketwatch. You followed him as he jaunted feetfirst “down” a long tunnel; onrushing air gave a reasonable illusion of falling in a magical sort of way.

  The place into which you emerged lived up to its name.

  Colly wanted to stay—forever. After an hour, Rhea was sick of rosy cheer and wanted to go be sullen with her husband. She left Colly with Duncan, made an agreement to meet them at suppertime, and followed Maxwell Perkins’s excellent directions through a maze of unfamiliar corridors to Jay’s studio. One thing about AIs: they made it hard to be a stranger in a strange land, even if you wanted to be. As long as there was a local database for your AI to invest, wherever you went, you were home.

  She paused outside the door, and had Max ask his alter ego—Rand’s AI avatar Salieri—whether she could enter without disturbing her husband; with his assurances she thumbed the door open and jaunted in. The work in progress looked so odd that her eye ignored it, noting only that it seemed to involve some sort of pseudo-underwater visuals and twelve-tone music. She had been married to a shaper too long to expect a rehearsal to look or sound like much.

  Rand was drifting a few meters off to her left, upside down with respect to her local vertical. His body was derelict, relaxed into the classic free-fall crouch, all his attention focused on the dozen writhing dancers who filled the cubic before him. Even upside down she could see that he was scowling so ferociously his forehead looked ribbed. He was making little growling mutters deep in his throat, shaking his head from side to side.

  She knew she had never seen him happier.

  Dammit.

  In that first glimpse of him, utterly intent on his work, she knew deep down, below the conscious level, that she was doomed. She could either live the rest of her life here, or start reliving the glorious single years…with an eight-year-old. Her subconscious thought about it, decided her conscious mind did not require this information just now, and tucked it away in the inaccessible node where stories got worked out.

  It stayed there for the next month. Every time it tried to get out, she went to work on a story instead. It was a very prolific month.

  8

  The Shimizu Hotel

  7 January 2065

  RAND BECAME AWARE THAT A FRAGMENT OF HIS ATTENTION was needed somewhere. His wife was present, and speaking to him. He played back mental tape and found that she had asked him if he would be free for dinner.

  The question confused him. It called for speculation, and contained a word with at least six different meanings. He searched
for a proper response, and selected, “Hah?”

  She understood perfectly. “Thanks, darling. I’ll have Salieri ask you again later. Listen to Salieri, okay? He’ll know where we are.”

  There were so many words, he decided a nod would be safest. It seemed to work: she went away, and though she was frowning slightly she did not slam anything on the way. Relieved, he relaxed and let his eyes and mind go where they needed to. Damn Pribhara anyway! Thanks to her, he had been placed in a position where his triumphal first achievement as Resident Shaper would be to wash someone else’s laundry. He had been doing so for a month, and all he had to show for it was a mountain of wet laundry.

  The thing was worse than awful: it was more than half done. Pribhara might not be good, but she was fast. There was no hope of scrapping it altogether and doing something completely new; deadline wouldn’t allow it.

  Ah well—the ones he should feel sorry for were Jay and the dancers of his company. They had already wasted hours and liters of sweat trying to make this dopey idea work…and were committed to performing the results in public, unarmed. All he had to—

  She didn’t say, “I love you” before she left.

  He was going to give that some serious thought—but just then it came to him in a clap of thunder how something might be salvaged from this fiasco. Steal from that weird dream he’d had last night: scrap the fakey underwater visuals completely…and substitute mid-air. Instead of sea-bed, substitute a city-sized carpet of clouds, backlit. Individual clouds could billow and move almost the same way the stupid seaweed did, the way the dancers needed it to for the choreography to work. From time to time, clouds could part to reveal the ground far below. Sure, it had been done before—but not lately, and not by him. God damn, that might just make the nut. But could he get away with it? What about the abominable shark in the second movement? Substitute a roc, perhaps? No, screw the details—what did it do to the overall feel? Did the dance still work with the music?

  Well, hell, just about anything worked with that twelve-tone noise. Or didn’t, if you asked him. No, it felt feasible. The essential artistic wrongness of dancers moving normally while supposedly deep underwater vanished now. If he had to, he’d write all new music to match the dance—he could almost hear it now, he certainly knew the choreography well enough. “Jay! I got it!”

  It took a while to establish communication; Jay was in work-mode himself. But eventually they had recognized each other and agreed on a common language, and Rand floated his concept. Jay liked it—said, in fact, that he had had a vaguely similar dream himself only the week before. He sank a few experimental harpoons into the idea before he would get excited, but when it continued to hold air he became nearly as elated as Rand.

  But not quite. There is a special pleasure in solving a difficult puzzle that has baffled your big brother. Jay had always been thirteen years older, stronger, smarter and more successful. Rand did not resent him, exactly: he had always been kind, supportive and generous with his time and attention. That they had had a childhood relationship at all had been primarily Jay’s doing; he’d seemed to really enjoy having a brother to teach things to. He had doubtless influenced Rand’s career choice, and had never (Rand was sure) insulted him by using his own artistic clout to pull strings on Rand’s behalf. And they were as easy in each other’s company as brothers were supposed to be; the difference in their ages had not been relevant for decades.

  And still, it was always pleasurable to pleasantly surprise the man.

  Jay handed the group off to Francine, his dance captain and assistant choreographer, and took Rand to his own suite. Along the way they tossed the new concept back and forth like an intellectual medicine ball, firming it up considerably in the process.

  “One thing that helps a lot,” Rand said as the door sealed behind them, “this crew is really good.”

  Jay nodded enthusiastically. “Best of the two. They actually enjoy the pony shows as much as the art.” The Shimizu offered two streams of dance entertainment to its guests: the high art on which Rand and Jay were collaborating, performed in the Nova Dance Theatre, and the “pony show”—essentially cabaret dance adapted for free-fall, sophisticated T&A—performed in the Dionysian Room. “I think of the two assistant ADs, Francine is the one who’ll take over my job when I retire. The team you worked with last time is good too—but this team is the original. It’s not just more hours logged: about a year ago something clicked and they meshed.” He tossed Rand a bulb of cola, got a root beer for himself.

  “That must be rare,” Rand said.

  “About like the odds of any twelve people in the same occupation falling in love and making it work.”

  The analogy, with its reminder of the collapse of Jay’s relationship with Ethan, made Rand’s good cheer begin to evaporate. Work had driven the crisis in his own marriage clear out of his mind—as he had hoped. Jay must have seen something in his face, because his next words were, “So how are things going with Rhea?”

  “Honest to God, I don’t know what to tell you, bro. She’s adjusted to free-fall now, and she seems to like it here okay—but it’s going to take more than that. All I can do is cross my fingers and pray that she falls head over heels in love with the place before the next month is up. Because if she doesn’t, I’m screwed.”

  “It happens,” Jay said sadly. “Happened to me: I’m in love with this dump. It sort of creeps up on you. Don’t—”

  “You weren’t born in Provincetown.” But he knew Jay was trying to cheer him up, and did his best. “That kid you picked to show her and Colly around is a good salesman, though.”

  Jay grinned. “If you’re not careful, she’ll fall head over heels in love with him. I’m kidding! As a matter of fact, I have it on good authority that he’s, well…at least bi.”

  “That was my guess…just how good is your authority?”

  “Don’t be silly. A twenty-year-old? I’m old enough to be his…his…”

  “…best lover yet. Come on, what have you got to lose?”

  “A lot. You obviously haven’t tried to keep up with a twenty-year-old lately. Anyway, I like ’em with muscles. We’re wandering. Look, what I started to say was, don’t change that diaper until you smell it. I know how much that house means to Rhea, and I know Provincetown is the most amazing place on Earth. But this is the most amazing place in space. Give her time.”

  “Well…I’ve got a surprise I’ve been working on for her in my spare time; I plan to spring it on her soon. Maybe tonight. It might just—”

  “Phone, Jay,” Diaghilev said. “Eva Hoffman, urgent.”

  Jay’s face changed. “Oh, shit. Excuse me, bro. Sergei, give me privacy.” Tugbots brought him earphones, hushmike and a monitor screen. He tossed Rand his holo remote and took the call. Rand passed the time by not-quite-watching flatscreen music videos from the Old Millennium, with the sound off, trolling for images to swipe.

  He killed the screen when he heard Jay say, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Something wrong?”

  His brother looked stricken. “One of my closest friends just decided not to die after all.”

  Rand looked at him. “Yeah, that’d be hard to take,” he said solemnly.

  Jay grinned, then frowned, then emitted a short burst of nervous laughter. “God, that sounds dumb, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ve got the same problem she has. I just don’t know how to deal with good news.”

  “Who are we talking about? Or should I ask?”

  “Eva Hoffman.”

  Rand was shocked. “She was thinking of catching a cab? I always figured her for an honored guest at the Party at the End of the Universe. I’m glad she changed her mind. I like her a lot.”

  “Me too. She’ll be at the special, tomorrow night.”

  “What special?”

  The company was presently performing Spatial Delivery, the piece he and Jay had co-created during his earlier residency; it would be played three nights a week and Sunday matinee
s until the new piece replaced it a month from now. But this was the first Rand had heard of a special performance.

  “Oh shit, I haven’t told you yet? Sorry; too many things on my mind. We’re doing a command performance. A private concert. In the same theater, of course, but the rest of the goats get told the show is cancelled. Only uips and a handful of peasant vips admitted.”

  “‘Whips’?”

  “Spelled U-I-P. Ultimately Important People.”

  Rand prepared himself not to be impressed. “Like who?”

  “Chen Ling Ho. Imaro Amin. Grijk Krugnk. Chatur Birla. And Victoria Hathaway. The Fat Five, I call ’em.”

  It was hard to get air. “All of them? In the same room at the same time? They’re gonna see my—our—piece?”

  “Yep. Kate Tokugawa’s been working on this visit for a month, in secret, and she wants all the trimmings. She authorized me to tell you, of course, but I plain forgot.”

  “What the hell are five of the most powerful people on Earth all doing here at the same time?”

  Jay shook his head. “My guess is, historians will just be getting really involved in arguing about that forty years from now. Probably no one will ever know. Those folks can edit reality. And they do not like people knowing what they’re doing. Especially before they’ve done it. Make damn sure you tell Rhea and Colly not to tell anyone about the special until all five are dirtside again.”

  “Tell two women not to talk about the most exciting thing that’s happened to them in weeks. Yeah, that’ll work.”

  Jay grabbed him by the upper arm. “Listen to me. This is serious. If the presence of those five guests becomes public knowledge, while they’re still here, you and I could both become unemployed real fast. If not worse. People have accidents in space.”

  Rand shook his arm free. “And an ordinary hotel guest like Eva Hoffman is invited to this top-secret performance?”