The Stardance Trilogy

by Spider

  One of the best games of all could be played solo in your room without working up a sweat: browsing through the Net. We all had Total Access, like the most respected and funded scholars in the Solar System, and could research to exhaustion any subject that interested us, initiate datasearches on a whim which would have bankrupted us back on Earth, download music and literature and visual art to our heart’s content. Ben in particular was heavily addicted to Netwalking, and it was a common occurrence for Kirra to have to drag him away from his terminal to go eat…whereupon he would begin babbling to her about what he’d just been doing or reading. Glenn too binged heavily, as did several others. As for myself, all I really used my access for was to watch hour after hour of Stardancer works, especially the ones that Shara Drummond and the Armsteads performed in. They were unquestionably the best dancers in space, and not just because they had been the first. By that point in history, all Stardancer dances were officially choreographed by the Starmind as a whole, in concert…and that must have been to a large extent true. But from time to time I was sure I recognized phrases or concepts that were pure Shara or pure Charlie/Norrey, even in works in which they didn’t physically appear.

  On the last day of week three, Kirra sprang a surprise on us. Reb called her up beside him in class that morning, and told us that she had something special to share with all of us. Most of us knew by then about her background and reason for being here; for the benefit of those who didn’t know all the details, she briefly sketched out the history of the Dreamtime, and the Songlines, and the importance of Song in the Aboriginal universe.

  “My people want to start movin’ out into space,” she finished up, “and so my job is to start sussin’ out the Songs for all this territory, so’s we can come make Walkabout here without bein’ afraid it’ll all up and turn imaginary on us.”

  “How’re you doing?” someone asked.

  “Well, that’s what I’m doin’ here in front of you. It’s been a lot slower goin’ than I expected…I got the Song o’ Top Step now, but. An’ I want to sing it for all you bastards.” (By now we had all learned that to an Australian, “bastard” held no negative connotations, meaning simply “person,” usually but not always male. Similarly, “tart” merely meant “female person.”)

  A surprised and delighted murmur went through the room: most of us knew how much her responsibility weighed on her. I was thrilled.

  “I just finished it this mornin’ before brekkie, even Ben an’ me roomie haven’t heard it yet. You all been here as long as I have, you ought to hear it. This ain’t just a tabi, a personal song, this is a proper corroboree Song, an’ it calls for an audience. Anyway I wanted you all to hear it, an’ Reb said it was all right with him if I did it here.”

  There were universal sounds of approval and encouragement.

  “All right, then: here goes.”

  She took her boomerang from her pocket, slapped it rhythmically against her other palm for ten counts, and began to sing.

  I cannot supply a translation of the words, and will not reproduce them as she sang them, because they were in Padhu-Padhu, a secret ritual language known only to Aboriginals, so secret (she explained to me later) that its very existence was unsuspected by Caucasian scholars until the late twentieth century.

  And it doesn’t matter, because there were very few words in what she sang. Very little of her song’s information content was verbal. It was the melody itself that was important.

  How can I describe that melody to you? I doubt that there is anything in your experience to compare it to. In fact, I doubt that there would have been much in another Aboriginal’s experience to compare it to; I’d heard a number of their Songs from Kirra and this was unlike them in ways I’m not equipped to explain even if you were equipped to understand me. It did not behave like any other melody I’d ever heard, yet somehow without thereby becoming unpleasing to the ear.

  It began at the very bottom of her alto register, and arced up in a smooth steady climb that suggested the shuttle flight from Earth. It opened out into a repeated five-tone motif whose majesty and regularity seemed to represent Top Step in its great slow orbit. Then the song changed, became busier. It behaved much like a jaunting Postulant, actually, gliding lazily, then putting itself into tumbles, then straightening out, bouncing off imaginary walls, coming to a halt and then kicking off again. Like a jaunter’s progress, her melody never really stopped, for she had mastered the didgeridu player’s trick of breathing in and out at the same time so that she never had to pause for breath. I closed my eyes as I listened, and the twists and turns her voice took evoked specific places in Top Step powerfully for me. The Great Hall, Solarium Three, a merry little flurry that was unmistakably Le Puis, a slow solemn ululation that was Harry Stein at the window of Solarium One. Somewhere in the middle was a frankly sensual movement that expressed zero gravity lovemaking, explicitly and movingly. Ben’s humour was in it, and Kirra’s mischievousness, and the richness of their love for each other. At the end, the five-tone theme returned, first with little trills of embellishment and then at last in its pure form, slower and slower until she drew out its last note into a drone, and fell silent.

  I don’t know how long we all drifted, silent, motionless, like so many sea lions. Reb was the first to shake off stasis and put his hands together, then Ben joined and then me and then the whole room exploded in applause and cheers that lasted for a long time. One of the loudest was Jacques LeClaire, the other musician in the room. She accepted our applause without smiling, as her due—or so I thought.

  “It’s called ‘Taruru,’” she said when the noise had died down. “That means a lot o’ things, really. ‘Last glow of evening,’ and ‘dying embers,’ and ‘peace o’ mind,’ kinda rolled into one.”

  “Teena,” Reb said, “save the Song Kirra just sang to her personal files as ‘Taruru.’”

  “Yes, Reb.”

  “Kirra,” Reb went on, “I think you should send that recording, as is, to your tribe.”

  “You think? I can do it again any time, just like that: that’s the point of a Songline Song.”

  “I understand. But send that copy. Please. I would be honoured.” Ben and I and others made sounds of vigorous agreement. Jacques called, “Oui! That is a take.”

  She nodded. “Right, then. Teena, transmit ‘Taruru’ to my Earthside number, would you?”

  “It’s done. Receipt has…just been acknowledged by your phone.”

  “What time is it in Queensland now?”

  “Five-fourteen PM.”

  “Bonzer. Yarra can play it for the Yirlandji Elders tonight after supper. Teena, everybody here can have a copy if they want.”

  There were more cheers. Kirra was well liked.

  “You’ll void your copyright,” Glenn warned.

  Kirra blinked at her. “What copyright? I didn’t make up the bloody thing, mate, I just sang it. It’s the Song of this place, see? It was here before I got here. You can’t copyright the wind.”

  Now I understood why she’d heard our applause without smiling. She’d assumed we were applauding the Song, not here performance.

  “One suggestion,” Reb said.

  “Yes, Reb?”

  “Transmit a copy to Raoul Brindle.”

  There was a murmur. Brindle had been the most famous living composer for over thirty years. “Oui,” Jacques called again, and several others echoed him. “Da!” “Sí!” “Hai!”

  Kirra looked thoughtful. “Be a bloody expensive phonecall, but. He an’ the Harvest Crew aren’t more than halfway back from Titan, it’d have to go by laser.”

  “If it did,” Reb said, “Top Step would pay the cost; Raoul has left specific orders that he wants to hear anything you want to send him. But a laser is not necessary. Since you are willing to release the Song to the public domain, just phone any nearby Stardancer and sing it. Raoul will hear it instantly.”

  “Why, sure! I’ll never get used to this telepathy business. Hey, Teena, send th
at Song to the nearest Stardancer that ain’t busy, addressed to Raoul Brindle, would ya?”

  “Transmission in progress,” Teena said. “Routing through Harry Stein, in realtime. Transmission ends in a little over five minutes.”

  There was one more round of applause, and then Kirra joined the rest of us and Reb began regular class. But five minutes later, Reb paused in the middle of a sentence.

  “Excuse me, friends. Teena has just informed me that there is a phonecall for Kirra from Raoul Brindle. Kirra?”

  “Open line, Teena.”

  Raoul Brindle said, “Hello, Kirra.”

  “G’day, mate,” she said, as though living legends phoned her up all the time.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your class. I just wanted to say that your Song has been heard by all members of the Starmind presently in circuit, from the orbit of Venus to that of Uranus. Our response condenses down to: hurry, sister. We await your Graduation. I’d be honoured if you’d sail on out here and meet me once you’re Symbiotic. Oh, and there’s a waiting list of one hundred and eighty-seven Stardancers who’d like to have a child with you if you’re willing. Uh, I’m one of ’em.”

  Kirra blinked. “Well, if I’m gonna live forever I suppose I got to do somethin’ with my time. I’m willin’ to discuss it with the lot of you bastards—but the line forms behind me Benjamin here. I think he’s got dibs on the first half dozen or so.”

  “No hurry,” Raoul agreed. “I would like to score your Song for didgeridu, mirrimba and walbarra, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh please!” she said. “And send it me, will you? I hated havin’ to leave me instruments behind. Have you really got ’em all out there with you?”

  “In my head,” he said. “Once you’re Symbiotic, you’ll find that’s all you really need. But I can reprogram my simulator to make a recording you can hear now.”

  “That’d be smashin’. About this comin’ out there to meet you, though…what’s the point? I mean, I’ll be just as near to you if my body’s right here, won’t I?”

  “Even for telepaths, touch has special meaning,” he said. “In one sense you’re right…but I’d like to shake your hand sooner, rather than later. It shouldn’t take you more than a few weeks.”

  “It would make a lovely honeymoon trip, love,” Ben said. Under her influence he had lately been developing the ability to speak short sentences, and then stop. It was some of the strongest evidence I’d seen yet that Top Step could radically alter character.

  She smiled suddenly. “Right, then. We’ll do it—singin’ all the way!”

  The room rocked with cheers.

  I could not completely suppress a twinge of envy. I wished I were coming along in my art as fast as she was in hers. But I was terribly happy for her.

  The next day was Sunday. (I did mention that we used a six-day work week in Top Step, didn’t I?) I spent the whole morning working out with Robert, the whole afternoon rehearsing in my studio, and the whole evening drinking Irish coffee in Le Puis with Robert and Kirra and Ben. Fat Humphrey had solved the zero-gee Irish coffee problem with a custom drinking bulb: a large chamber for coffee and booze, and a smaller one full of whipped cream; you sucked the former through the latter. Micah juggled, and Jacques LeClaire put on a lovely impromptu performance on the house synth. To everyone’s surprise, Glenn jumped in and sang two numbers, very well, in a pure, controlled alto. She was roundly cheered, and blushed deeply. Then Kirra had to sing the Song of Top Step for those who hadn’t heard it. The applause was deafening. So many drinks were credited to her account that she never paid for another dram the whole time she was inboard. It was a memorable night.

  Robert kissed me goodnight at my door, not pushing it. I sort of wished he had. But not enough to push it myself.

  Monday we all came to class excited—some eager, some anxious. Today a new stage in our training began. We were all dressed in our p-suits, airtanks and all, and we certainly were a colourful bunch. As we entered the room, Reb gave each of us a quick, warm handclasp and a private smile. His p-suit was forest green. The room looked different: all Velcro had been stripped from the chamber; its spherical wall was smooth and shiny.

  “As you know,” he said when we were assembled, “today we begin a week of EVA simulation. We’ve discussed and prepared for it. Some of you may experience disorientation, fear, perhaps even panic. This is normal and nothing to be self-conscious about. If you feel it’s becoming too much, say so and I’ll turn the walls off at once. It may help to take a visual fix, now, on those nearest you.”

  I mapped myself in relation to Robert and Reb.

  “Close your hoods, now.”

  We did so, and there was a soft sighing as my suit air kicked in. It was the only sound: these p-suits had radios that filtered out breathing sounds automatically, and there was no chatter.

  “Remember,” Reb’s voice said in my ear then, “please do not use your thrusters until I tell you to. Try to remain still. This is going to be startling enough without having a train wreck. Are you all ready? Teena, begin simulation.”

  Top Step went away!

  Suddenly we were all floating in raw, empty space. It didn’t matter that we were all expecting it: the transition was as shocking as a roller-coaster plunge. A flurry of involuntary motion went through the room, and my earphones buzzed with the sum of dozens of grunts, gasps, and assorted exclamations—including my own “Dear Christ!” I swallowed hard and clung to my fix on Robert and Reb. If they were all right, I was too.

  “Remember your breathing!” Reb called.

  Oh yes. Inhale, slowly, hold it for the same interval, exhale completely, hold, feel the breath, follow it, become it…three weeks of training kicked in and I began to calm down, to try and appreciate the incredible sight.

  The illusion provided by the spherical holo wall of the classroom was terribly effective. Seeing space through the window of a Solarium is much different than actually being out in it, surrounded on all sides by infinity. Intellectually I knew it was an illusion, but it took my breath away just the same.

  Earth was off to my left, turning lazily, Luna above my head, and the Sun was at my back. Top Step did not exist in this simulation, nor the Nanotech Safe Lab nor any of the other factories and modules that surrounded Top Step. All around me was eternal cold dark, and the ancient coals of a billion billion suns. For the first time in my life I began to get an emotional grasp of just how far away they were. In TV scifi the stars are just down the street. It suddenly came home to me just how preposterous was the notion that Man or Stardancer would ever reach them. Me, the whole human race, the whole Starmind: we were all brief, inconsequential flickers in this endless blackness—

  The holo was so good that even the shadows were right. That is, the side of anyone that faced the Sun was brightly lit…and the other side seemed not to exist at all, unless it occulted some sunlit object behind it. In space there is no atmosphere to diffuse light and mitigate shadows. Of course there, in the room, there actually was air—we were breathing p-suit air only to maintain the simulation—but the holo corrected for that and fooled our eyes.

  I had thought I was used to being in free fall. But I had never had this far to fall. In Top Step the longest you could possibly jaunt in a straight line before docking with something was about a hundred meters, in the Great Hall. But if someone were to give me a mischievous shove now, I would fall for eternity…or so my eyes tried to tell me, and my stomach believed them implicitly. I had no umbilical tether to catch me; in this simulation there was nothing closer than Terra to tether to.

  Inhale, hold, exhale…

  From Earth all you can see of the Milky Way is a streak in the sky like a washed-out rainbow. I could see the whole stupendous galactic lens edge on, bisecting the Universe. The starfield was so magnificent that for the first time in my life I understood how even some educated people could believe it ruled their destinies.

  Reb said nothing further, let us soak in it. Someone was
swearing, softly and steadily and devoutly, a female voice. Someone else was weeping, a male. Kirra was humming under her breath, quite unconsciously I think. All at once someone giggled, and then Jacques did too, and then others, and the very idea of giggling in space was so brave and silly that I had to laugh myself, and I think we might have gotten a group belly-laugh going if Nicole hadn’t picked just then to scream. That first split second of it before the radio’s automatic level control damped her volume went through my ears like a hot knife; involuntarily I started and went into a tumble. So did almost everyone else, and a train wreck began—