Starship Fall (Starship Seasons, #2)(6)

That’s settled, then,” Maddie said. “Right, we’re going back to the Jackeral for a meal, Hawk. Come with us, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

Hawk smiled, knowing better than to argue with Maddie. “That sounds like a civilised idea.”

As we climbed down from the ship and approached Matt’s ground-effect vehicle, Maddie said, “But David won’t be joining us, will you David?” She looked at me archly.

Hawk glanced my way. I’d forgotten all about my invitation for drinks from the one-time famous holo star, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be reminded.

Maddie went on, “He has an assignation, don’t you, David? With a beautiful holo star.”

She regaled Hawk with the story as we drove back to Magenta Bay.

Hawk said, “That’s odd. I once knew her lover, the pilot Ed Grainger... I wonder what brought her here?”

“Maybe the same as what brought all of us here,” I said. “Maybe she’s fleeing the demons of her past.”

Maddie laughed. “Well, we’ll be relying on you to find out, David.”





On the stroke of eight I rapped on the glass door and stood back, clearing my throat nervously.

The door swished open and the ex-holo star beamed at me. “Conway, how nice of you to come. And you’ve brought something; how sweet. Do come in.”

I passed her the bottle of Chardonnay and stepped into the lounge; the lighting was low and so was the music, something classical and… dare I say it… intimate?

I managed to drag my eyes away from Carlotta; she was not so much dressed as wrapped. In fact, sprayed on might be a better word to describe her faux chamois costume, a scant spiral of flesh-toned material which wound round her breasts, crossed her flat stomach and by some miracle managed to conceal her crotch. She was holding a long-stemmed champagne glass, and by the abstracted glaze in her eyes I guessed she’d been drinking for quite a while.

She swayed across to a bar and deposited the wine.

I looked around the long lounge. The first thing I noticed, much to my relief, was that we were not alone. Three guests stood chatting at the far end of the room, and standing beside them was the young woman I had yesterday assumed was Carlotta’s daughter. I wondered at the rivalry that might exist between the two women, for the younger was as beautiful, if not more so, than the older.

“Can I get you something, Conway?”

“Ah… a beer would be nice.”

While she poured an ice cold wheat beer, I looked around at the artwork on the walls. They were, I saw, stills taken from various holo-movies; it was half a minute before I realised that the women depicted were all Carlotta, in a dozen or so very different roles.

“I see you’re admiring the shots,” she said, passing my glass. “They’re the work of Ed Kalcheck, and needless to say they’re all originals.”

“Kalcheck?” I asked.

“The holo-movie director, of course. He directed most of my movies, and occasionally selected shots which he felt worked on their own merit. My favourite is this one,” she went on, indicating the shot of herself against the backdrop of a harbour, the full moon lighting her face. “It’s from the award-winning Charisma, of course, where I played a telepathic double-agent. I thought it my finest performance. You must know it – the telepath is tortured by the subjective truth she divines in the human soul. Her decision to turn against her former pay-masters symbolises her despair at ever learning what she craves: objective truth.”

“Ah...” I said, colouring. “Yes; yes. A great film.”

She swept on, “And of course you must recognise this one...” indicating a woman whose expression seems torn by anguish. “It’s from Winter’s Children, where I played a woman with the ability to look into the future, at the tragedy that awaits her.”

“Of course,” I said. “A classic.”

“I thought so too, Conway.”

She led me around the room, giving me not only a potted filmography of everything she’d ever appeared in, but a good indication of her personality. I wondered if breathtaking beauty was always accompanied by a monstrous ego.

I glanced over at the other guests; they were chatting away as if oblivious of our presence. I recognised none of them as locals, and wondered if they, like Luna, were off-worlders.

“But I’m not the only celebrity here tonight, Conway,” she laughed brightly with, I thought, a stab at false modesty.

“Oh…” I looked across at the guests, hoping at last to be introduced.

“I mean,” she said, laying an exquisitely manicured finger on my forearm, “you. I saw Opener of the Way, you see. It’s a stirring film, Conway. I thought–”

“It bore no relation to what happened,” I interrupted. “It was sensationalised–”

“But surely, Conway, it was sensationalised in order to attain a greater metaphorical truth?”

I snorted at this. “It was sensationalised to get a greater share of the box-office takings,” I said. “It misrepresented the characters and motives of my friends, and trivialised their past traumas. As for how I was portrayed...”

She laid a hand on my arm, her touch electrifying, leaned close and whispered, “Well, perhaps during my stay here I will get to know the real David Conway, yes?”