Starlady & Fast-Friend

by George R. R. Martin

  “Not quiet enough, Hal,” the voice said from the doorway. Stumblecat stood there, smiling, his hand on his stingstick. “Not quite quiet enough.”

  He sauntered in with the clumsy ease that was uniquely his. Crawney followed, pushing Mayliss ahead of him. She stumbled up against the table, reeled, then pulled away towards the bedrooms.

  “They want to see you,” she said, looking apprehensively at Crawney and Stumblecat. “They found me on the Concourse and took my keyplate.”

  Hairy Hal closed his book and stood. “Spin it,” he said. His face was a guarded blank.

  “You know it all already, Hal,” Stumblecat said. Such a soft voice he had, such a civilized purr. “You’ve known it all along. We told you long ago that we bear you no grudge. You can pimp all you like, girls, boys, anything. But exotics, well, you know. The Marquis has a sentimental attachment to exotics. He collects them, you might say.”

  “You been spinning us wobbly,” Crawney put in, grinning at Hal and showing off all his teeth. “But you can straighten out. Just give us your exotic.”

  “Golden Boy, I believe he’s called,” said Stumblecat.

  “Yes,” Hal said. “Only Golden Boy isn’t an exotic. Would Hal spin you wobbly, eh? He’s just human, an alter, look at the book.” He tapped it, offering.

  “I’m not interested in any books, Hal,” Stumblecat said. “An alter is exotic enough for the Marquis. And even if you were right, well, the sad fact is we’d still want him. That much inside business is too tempting.”

  “You want to get your other arm crottled?” Crawney said. “Wrong? Then you’d better hum to us, Hal.”

  Hal did not move. But Mayliss did. She came around the table, grabbed him, shoved him towards them. “Hal!” she shrieked. “Hey, this is your chance! Only two of them, and Crawney never carries nothing, and Stumblecat is a clumsy stupid with his stick. Take them!” She pushed him again from behind.

  And he hesitated, then whirled and slapped her hard. “You want to spin me cold, redhead,” he said. “There might be more outside.”

  Mayliss pulled back, said nothing. Stumblecat and Crawney just watched and smiled. Janey frowned. “Hal,” she said. “You can’t give Golden Boy to the Marquis. You can’t do that, Hal, she’s right.”

  But Hal ignored her. “Golden Boy’s gone now,” he said, turning back to the two men. “He’ll be back, straight spin! You can have him.”

  “We’ll wait,” Crawney said.

  “Yes,” said Stumblecat “And Hal, you haven’t treated us very hospitably, you know.”

  Hal’s lip trembled. “I—no, Hal will set you right. Drinks?”

  “Later,” said Stumblecat. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.” He walked over to Janey, reached out and stroked her hair. She shivered.

  Hal looked at her. “Janey?” he said. “My Starlady? Will you….” But she was already gone, with Stumblecat, to the bedroom.

  Crawney, not to be left out, took Mayliss.

  * * *

  They watched pink shadows run as the globe pulsed.

  Two of them.

  Alone together.

  The insider had brought Golden Boy back at last, and the blackskulls who’d been outside had taken him. Mayliss had left too, packing all her things in silence. Now there was Hairy Hal and Starlady.

  She sat there, calm, cold, and watched him and the shadows. This time Hal was crying.

  “I can’t, Janey,” he said, over and over, in a broken voice. “I can’t. He chills me, Starlady, and I’ve seen him with his stick. The no-knife, yes, it’s a better weapon, quicker, cleaner. But him, the Marquis, he’s too good. Probly Hairy Hal could’ve taken him, he thought he could’ve, one on one, no-knife against stingstick. No chance, though. An’ now, Hal’s all crottled. Marquis’ll never face him alone anyhow.”

  “You’re Hairy Hal,” Janey said evenly. “If he could take Marquis once, you can take him now. You can’t leave Golden Boy with him. You can’t. I love Golden Boy.”

  Hal looked up, wincing. “Hey, Starlady,” he said. “I’m spinning you straight. You want Hal cold?”

  “If you won’t do anything,” she said. “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “I hum to you, Janey,” he said suddenly, staring at her with something that was almost fear.

  “Wonderful. But you’ll never see me again.” She stood up. “Give me your no-knife, Hal. If you won’t try, I will.”

  “They’ll kill you, Starlady, or worse. Root down an’ listen. You won’t even find the Marquis.”

  “Yes I will. And he’ll face me one on one, too. You told me how, Hal. The Marquis is loud, remember? Well, me too. I’ll stand in the middle of the Silver Plaza and shout for him until he comes. He can hardly have his blackskulls gang up on me then. If he did, who’d ever get chilled again? Will you give me the no-knife?”

  “No,” he said, stubborn. “You’re wobbly.”

  “All right,” she replied, leaving.

  * * *

  Night-cycle in the Plaza, and the silver-shining overheads were out. The wall-lights provided a different illumination, winking through their color-phases, alternately dyeing the faces of the revellers blue or red or green or violet. The dancers were out in force, music was everywhere, and the air was thick with the sweet gaiety of joy-smoke.

  On the polished stairway that curved up towards the second tier of shops, Starlady took her stand and began to spin.

  “Hey,” she called to the throngs below her, to the people pushing by, “Hey, stop and listen to me spin. You won’t soon have the chance. The Marquis is going to kill me.”

  Below, the off-worlders paused, curious, admiring. Whispers were exchanged. Prometheans shook their heads and grinned. And the swaggers in their swoopsuits, the redheads out to sell, the drooling dreamers and the men who doled out dreams, the pimps, the bodyguards, the dancers and the thieves—well, they knew what was going on. A show was coming. They stopped to watch.

  And Starlady spun, Starlady with the shiny, dark hair, in a suit of milky nightwhite that took the colors of the lights, Starlady with a black rod in her hand.

  “Marquis took my lover,” she shouted to the gathering crowd. “He chilled down Hal and stole the Golden Boy, but he hasn’t chilled down me.” And now the no-knife in her hand was alive, its ghost blade flickering strangely in the violet light. And Starlady was sheathed in purple, her face stained grim and somber.

  “I’ll kill him if he comes,” she said, as they drew away around her, leaving her alone on the stairs. “Me, Starlady, and I’ve never used a no-knife in my life.” The Plaza was growing quiet, tension spread outward like ripples in a pool. Here the talking stopped, there the dancers ceased to whirl, over in the corner a joyman killed his smoke machine. “But he won’t come, not Marquis, and I’ll tell you why. He’s chilled.”

  And now the light clicked over, and Starlady was a vision in green, the ghost blade a writhing bluish shadow. “You’ve seen him kill, starslummers,” she said, with a shake of emerald-dark hair. “And you’ve heard the wobbly spins, right? Marquis, who hums to pain. Marquis, Thisrock’s top ’stick.” She threw back her head and laughed. Over on the far side of the Plaza, they were muting their music and drifting her way. “Well, think now, have you ever seen him fight? Without his blackskulls? Without Crawney—” she pointed, and a man with a shiny striped skull straightened and glared and rushed towards the nearest corridor— “and Stumblecat—” she whirled the other way and picked him out lounging against a food stall, and Stumblecat smiled and lifted his stingstick and waved— “to hold the arms of his victim?”

  The light clicked again, and she was bright blue and glowing, and the no-knife was suddenly invisible. Now the Plaza was dead, still, captive to the Starlady. “No,” she shouted, “you haven’t, no one has. Straight spin! Remember what you see tonight, watch when the blackskulls come and take me, watch how they hold my arms when Marquis kills me, and remember how he was too chilled to come alone!”

  A murmur went thro
ugh the throng, and eyes lifted. And Starlady turned and smiled. Two blackskulls were coming down the stairs behind her, their faces hard chalk-blue. “See?” she told the crowd. “I spun you straight!”

  Only then someone bounded out of the audience below, a yellow-faced youth with sparkling circles on his head and a glittery gold-flake swoopsuit. He took the stairs three at a time, past her, and a stingstick was in his fist. He waved it at the blackskulls. “No, no,” he shouted, grinning. “No grabs, soursticks. I’m humming to a show.”

  The blackskulls drew their own sticks and prepared to take him. But then another swagger joined him, all aglow in dazzlesilk. And then a third, and a fourth with a wicked white nervelash. And others came running down behind them, sticks drawn.

  Out in the plains of the Plaza, a dozen other blackskulls found themselves surrounded. The mob wanted Marquis.

  And Starlady, shining crimson, stood and waited, and when she moved the red reflections flashed in her hair like liquid fire. Till another voice challenged hers.

  “You spin a wobbly spin, Starlady,” Hairy Hal said from the foot of the stairs. They’d gone for him, of course. By now the news had rippled far beyond the Silver Plaza. “Probly little Janey Small of Rhiannon hasn’t seen the Marquis kill, but Hairy Hal has. He’s good, redhead, an’ Hal is going to watch while he teaches you how to scream.”

  Heads turned, people murmured. Hairy Hal, well, wasn’t he her lover? No, the answers came, she never hummed to him, so maybe his hum’s gone sour.

  “There’s Hairy Hal,” Starlady called from her perch. “Hairy Hal the quiet pimp, but you ought to call him Chilly Hal. Ask Mayliss, and she’ll tell you. Ask me, too, about Golden Boy and Hal.”

  Stumblecat, his stingstick sheathed, pushed his way forward and stood next to Hal. “Hal’s just smart, Janey,” he said smiling. “You, sadly, are not. Though you are pretty. Maybe the Marquis will let you live, and rent you out to nerve lash freaks.”

  Hal laughed, coarsely. “Yes. Hal could hum to that.”

  Her eyes flashed at him, as the red light flicked to gold. Then Marquis came.

  He walked easily, gracefully, swinging his stingstick and smiling. His eyes were lost behind their dark ring. Crawney scrambled beside him, trying to keep up.

  As if on signal, Stumblecat drew his stick and gestured. People pulled back, leaving a clear circle at the base of the stairway. A wall formed to keep onlookers out; blackskulls and Starlady’s swaggers, working together.

  Starlady descended, golden.

  The ring closed around her. Inside was only Crawney, Stumblecat, the Marquis, and Hairy Hal. Plus her, plus Starlady. Or was it Janey Small, from Rhiannon?

  The light went violet again. The Marquis smiled darkly, and Janey Small suddenly looked small indeed. She shifted her no-knife nervously from one hand to another, then back again.

  As they advanced, Stumblecat sidled up to Hairy Hal. He grinned, and lifted his stingstick, and jabbed Hal very lightly in the chest. Pain sparkwheeled out, and Hal winced.

  “Your no-knife, Hal,” Stumblecat said. “On the ground.”

  “Hey, sure, Hal’s on your side,” he said. His good hand reached under the cape, came out again, and dropped a dead knife to the floor. “Straight spin, Stumblecat! Starlady needs a stinging, she never learned the rules, right?”

  Stumblecat just smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe that’s what you think.” He eyed Hal speculatively. His stingstick wandered under the corner of the cape, began to lift it. Then, suddenly, he glanced over at the Marquis, laughed, and changed his mind. Stumblecat put the stick away.

  “They all saw me disarm you, Hal,” he said, nodding.

  Meanwhile Janey circled, holding her no-knife out clumsily, trying to keep the Marquis at bay. He hadn’t moved yet. He just grinned at her and waved his stick, like a snake preparing for the strike.

  When the light clicked from purple to green, she jumped, bringing the ghost blade down at his baton. One touch, cut it in half, and he was hers. She’d seen Hal do it oh, so often.

  But the Marquis just flicked his stick back, blinking-quick, and her no-knife severed air. Then it whirled forward again, to brush her wrist. Janey screamed and pulled back. The no-knife rang upon the floor.

  She backed away. The Marquis followed. “Not over, silly ship girl,” he said to her softly, as she clutched her wrist. “I’m going to chill you good, and hurt you, and teach you how things work. Come to me, Starlady.”

  And he darted at her, his stick brushing one cheek. She screamed again, as an angry flush appeared. The Marquis had his stick set on maximum.

  He was cornering her, advancing towards her, herding her toward the ring of stingsticks that kept the crowd away. As he drifted in, oh so slowly, the watchers pushed and shoved for better position, while inside the ring, Crawney and Stumblecat and Hairy Hal followed behind him.

  Janey took one step too far backwards, came up against a stick, yelped, jumped forward again. The Marquis stroked her lovingly, down her side, and heard another scream.

  She rushed at him then, tried to grab the stick, screamed again as she finally caught it and had to let it go. He gave her another swat as she rushed past, past him and Hal and Stumblecat, towards the fallen no-knife.

  Marquis swiveled and started to follow. But Hal stepped beside him, then, and the Marquis shoved up against his cape.

  And cried a gurgling cry.

  And fell.

  It was quite an ordinary kitchen knife sticking through Hal’s cape. Beneath, clutching it and trembling, a crottled blackened hand.

  By then, Janey had recovered her no-knife. She finished the Marquis as he lay there bleeding.

  There were loud noises from the crowd. Stumblecat snarled and gestured, and suddenly the ring broke, the blackskulls began swinging their sticks and people shouted and shrieked and scattered. A few swaggers fought briefly before running. And Crawney was still standing open-mouthed while Stumblecat picked up Hal’s no-knife, moved in behind him, and neatly slit his throat. There was only room for one emperor at a time.

  In the center of chaos, Hal stood smiling. Janey knelt by the Marquis. “Hey, Starlady,” Hal said. “We did it. I did it. Now we can get back an’ buy our way down, an’…”

  “I still don’t have Golden Boy,” she said coldly.

  Stumblecat walked over and smiled down at her. “Ah, but you do. He doesn’t seem to understand us. I think he had some sort of empathic link with you, or Hal, or both. Join us, Starlady, and you’ll have him every night.”

  “Hey!” Hal said, angrily.

  “All right,” said Janey.

  He looked at her shocked. “Janey,” he said. “You’re spinning wobbly. I killed him for you, Starlady, my Starlady. Like you wanted.”

  “That’s what Mayliss wanted, Hal,” she said, standing. “I just wanted Golden Boy. And I’m going to have him. He’s not like the rest of you. He’s still clean, and kind, and I love him.” She smiled.

  “But,” said Hal. “But, Starlady, Hal hums—I love, you. What about me?”

  “What about you?” Starlady said.

  And she went off with Stumblecat, to find her Golden Boy.

  * * *

  In the end, some of them were dead. The rest survived.

  Fast-Friend

  BRAND woke in darkness, trembling, and called out. His angel came to him.

  She floated above him, smiling, on wings of soft gauze gold. Her face was all innocence, the face of a lovely girl-child, softness and light and wide amber eyes and honeyed hair that moved sinuously in free-fall. But her body was a woman’s, smooth and slim and perfect; a toy woman fashioned on a smaller scale.

  “Brand,” she said, as she hovered above his sleep-web. “Will you show me the fast-friends today?”

  He smiled up at her, his dreams fading. “Yes, angel,” he said. “Yes, today, I’m sure of it. Now come to me.”

  But she moved back when he reached for her, coy, teasing. Her blush was a creeping tide of gold
, and her hair danced in silken swirls. “Oh, Brand,” she said. Then, as he cursed and reached to unsnap his web, she giggled at him and pouted. “You can’t have me,” she said, in her child’s voice. “I’m too little.”

  Brand laughed, grabbed a nearby handbar to pull himself free of the web, then whipped himself around it toward the angel. He was good in free-fall, Brand; he’d had ten years of practice. But the angel had wings.

  They flowed and rippled as she darted to one side, just beyond his reach. He twisted around in midair, so he hit the wall with his legs. Then, immediately, he kicked off again. The angel giggled and brushed him with her wings as he flew by. Brand hit the ceiling with a thump and groaned.

  “Ooo,” she said. “Brand, are you hurt?” And she was at his side, her wings beating quickly.

  He grinned and put his arms around her. “No,” he said, “but I’ve got you. Since when is my angel a tease, eh?”

  “Oh, Brand,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was only playing. I was gonna come to you.” She was trying to look hurt, but despite her best efforts, a tiny smile escaped the corner of her mouth.

  He pulled her to him, hard, and pressed her strange coolness against his own heat. This time there was no reluctance. Her delicate hands went behind him, to hold him tight while he kissed her.

  Floating, nude, they joined, and Brand felt the soft caress of wings.

  * * *

  When they were finished, Brand went to his locker to dress. The angel hovered nearby, her wings barely moving, her small breasts still flushed with gold.

  “You’re so pretty,” she told him, as he pulled on a dull black coverall. “Why do you hide, Brand? Why can’t you stay like me, so I can see you?”

  “A human thing, angel,” he said, hardly listening to her chatter. He’d heard it all before. His boots made a metallic click as they pulled him to the floor.