Starfall
by R. Garcia y Robertson
Illustration by Alan Giana
Belt City Blues
A holo walks into a bar… Heard it before? But this is no joke. The bar is real, aboard an orbiting habitat, Belt City, in Orion 3645A, the G-type, A-half of a no-hope Outback double system. All one hundred percent real—even if the holo is not. Or rather, they were real. Bar, habitat, and double system all fell victim to a cosmic mishap. So don’t do a search for them in any updated Systems Guide.
But during the bar’s last months in business, a holo did come in. Not just any holo either, a virtual angel on a mercy mission off a ship named Nightingale. She had long silvery hair, a honey-sweet voice, caring eyes, and a cheerful absent smile. Being a holo, she did not drink, smoke, kiss, or pet. She had just come to Belt City a bit ahead of herself, to see and to be seen. Hoping to get picked up. Judge for yourself how she did.
Outside, people rioted. Belt City was already doomed, bringing civic functions to a halt. Somehow slidewalks ran and air got recycled, but little else got done. Anyone with a gram of sense—anyone who planned for their future—fought like hell to get aboard a ship headed outsystem.
Bypassing the jammed starport, the holo beamed straight to the Danse Macabre, on the Belt’s high-g level, timing her signal so that she stepped casually out of the wall. Less vulgar than flickering into being in some stranger’s face. And this holo hated being vulgar. She had serious things to do.
The upcoming end of the world had exploded the bar scene. If you’re doomed, don’t waste it. Worried about health or credit? That was for folks with hope. The whole double system had no future to fear or look forward to. People packed the Danse Macabre, so desperate for pleasure that even a holo could turn heads. In fact, being an offworlder was a plus. A ticket outsystem had become the ultimate aphrodisiac. Which was one reason why she projected herself wearing ship’s clothes, the sort of loose tasteful outfit supplied to passengers. With the Nightingale’s starbird-in-flight logo at her throat, she just had to stand and survey the scene to get immediate attention.
“Hey, you’re looking awfully adequate.”
The holo turned slowly. The guy accosting her was flesh-and-blood, and looking pretty adequate as well, with dark eyes, biosculpted cheekbones, and long insolent lashes. He wore a torso-suit of clinging chrome fabric, leaving no room for imagination. “New to the Belt?” he asked. “I’m called Anton.”
Speed-of-light delay made her take her time answering—as if she were overly thoughtful, or not too swift. Nightingale was still over a light-second out. “Tiffany,” she told him. “Tiffany Panic.”
Anton grinned. “Great name.”
She thanked him gravely. “My parents’ idea.”
“So, are you slow-witted? Or just somewhere far away?”
Tiffany gave a lazy shrug. “You know what they say about blondes.” She liked his boldness. Anton looked good, even from half a million klicks. But Tiffany had not come looking for the usual you-show-me-I’ll-show-you virtual date.
“Incoming or outgoing?”
“Incoming.”
“Headed where?” Anton looked her over, trying to gauge how much of what he saw was real. Hard to tell with a holo. “Maybe I can get you there.”
“Maybe you could.” Tiffany very much needed someone to get her where she had to go. Anton might be that someone—he sure acted like he was. Her sensors agreed. Heartbeat, voice modulation, GSR, and pupil dilation all told her Anton was more than willing, thoroughly interested in her. Ready to take risks.
“You name it, I’ve been there. From Belt City to the edge of the Beyond.”
“It’s not technically insystem,” Tiffany admitted.
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Where is it?”
“Floreal.”
Anton’s face fell. Indicators tumbled. He glanced at the packed bar beyond her, unconsciously searching for something better. Turning back to Tiffany, his smile had shrunk several centimeters. “So, how about your berth outsys-tem?” Clearly she would not be needing it.
“Only if you get me to Floreal.”
Anton took his act elsewhere. Tiffany attracted more attention, but interest faded whenever she mentioned Floreal. The better they looked, the faster the brush-off. She started feeling like damaged goods, too deranged even for a dying system.
The Danse Macabre lived up to its name. Distracted dancers jerked listlessly, like broken toys, mimicking offworld steps light years out-of-date, all to local lyrics. “Got no feeling, got no future, got no where to go…” No outrage, no remorse, just old news.
Tiffany watched a couple dancing in place. The boy was a Choctaw, in leather and body paint, head half-shaved, hair pulled to the side. His gaze stayed hard, casing the bar over his girlfriend’s bare shoulder, keeping his thigh moving between her legs. His girl was young, a slinky-haired waif, looking wise and woebegone, growing up ahead of her time. Matching her boyfriend’s indifferent movements, she molded to his body, laying her head on his shoulder, wrapping a leg around his calf. Losing herself in him. Knowing her odds against getting to adulthood were just shy of astronomical.
Tiffany’s heart went out to her. She had been to hardluck systems before, but she could not look at that sad-eyed girl without desperately hoping to even the odds. Even holos could feel. Sometimes.
“No luck, honey?”
Tiffany turned again. She faced a woman this time, very much in the flesh, with a wild mane of red hair and fine worry lines around her eyes. Maybe twice as old as she looked, she wore a v-shaped jacket with a plunging neckline, held in place by enhanced anatomy. Her half-boots had steel toes. Glitter pants looked sprayed on.
Tiffany nodded slowly. No sense denying the obvious.
“I can get you to where you want to go.” The redhead said it like she meant it. Sensors agreed.
“Floreal?”
“Sure. If that is where you aim to be.” Fancy pants did not think much of that destination. Nobody did. She flicked open a silver compact with a lacquered nail, extracting a mildly narcotic cigarette. Snapping the compact shut, she shoved it into a big purse matching her jacket. “No sweat.”
“How?” Tiffany felt cautious optimism. Sensors said the top-heavy redhead in a plunging jacket and sprayed-on pants was telling the truth. Or at least believed that she was.
“I’ve got a friend.” She tapped the cigarette against the bar and it lit itself. She took a long drag, then blew sweet opiated smoke through Tiffany. “Call me Faith.”
“Tiffany. Tiffany Panic.”
“So I hear. Where you beamed from?”
“Rescue ship Nightingale. Inbound for Belt City, half a million klicks out. ETA 01:53:20 tomorrow A.M.”
“Glad to meet you.” Sensors said that was the truth. Faith was delighted to have found Tiffany. She nodded at the door. “Let’s go.”
Tiffany followed her out. Faith hopped a slow slidewalk headed spinward, and set off in the direction of motion, using long thigh-showing strides. Tiffany followed in her wake, until the moving strip got too crowded, forcing Faith to hold up.
A trio of topknotted Jutes, two boys and a girl, blocked further progress, sitting atop a pile of cartons, mostly stolen holocams and headsets. Farther down the slidewalk a family had set up housekeeping. Belt City was full to bursting with newcomers fleeing the smaller habitats. Gray tubeway slid slowly past, broken by bar fronts and holo arcades. People got on and off.
One of the Jutes called out, “What will you give for a super-V synthesizer?”