134-alien performers
McDonagh would give them one thing: the Starline Lounge was truly one-of a kind. She'd grown up on a station: Vesper, Low Mars Orbit, so she was no Grounded rube whose eyes glazed over at the first sight of off-world architecture.
But the Starline was something else. Most Solan stations were squat and boxy, with clusters of antennae growing thickly over their roofs and huge antigrav units cobbled haphazardly to their anteriors.
The Starline was elegant, a graceful circular construction that illuminated the stellar twilight with a halo of phosphoresance. It hung like an ornament placed into a gallery for display. MacReady had picked the 1950s for her Ancient History dissertation, and the curved and finned lines of the station's systems, encircling the main structure, recalled those wonderful buildings she'd seen in the sims.
As their transport shuttle drew nearer and nearer, holographic displays shimmered into view, displaying the name, STARLINE, in Latin, Han and Quartec, and dozens of other scripts she couldn't recognise.
A low whistle made the hairs on her neck stand on end. "Pretty impressive, huh?" Max Zoff smiled, his pinstriped thighs spreading disagreeably. She did her best to return the gesture, more a baring of teeth. "Yeah, it sure is something. Very pretty."
"You can tell it ain't human-made," Max agreed. "Gotta hand it to the bugs, they got us beat when it comes to space. But we'll get there, huh?"
McDonagh said nothing, and he drummed his hands on his thighs. Then, he smiled and said, "Hey, since you're a Starline virgin, try and follow my lead. Don't stare too much, play it cool, you know? They like to think we're all little kids and they're dangling the spaceship keys in the light. But if we play our cards right, they'll know they're dealing with the big guns."
"Sure," MacDonagh offered. "I'm pretty used to looking unimpressed, so it should be easy."
"Attagirl," Max said, ignoring- or not noticing- the insult.
"Five minutes to docking," a synthetic voice chimed. "Please prepare to disembark."
The ship slotted smoothly into the docking bay, and as they stepped out of the airlock onto smooth, rich carpet, MacDonagh couldn't help but feel a little impressed.
They were greeted by a smiling android in gold and chrome, who directed them through to their table.
Arth was already seated. He waved one set of arms at them, gesturing to them to sit.
"Ah, Solans. Be welcome. Come, we have a lot to discuss. There are many drinks here that are suited to your palette…"
"Of course. Whisky sour for me, and the lady will have an amaretto…"
"Actually," McDonagh put in, "I'm going to have a club soda. Better to keep a clear head."
Max's smile didn't flicker, but his eyes betrayed a shock to the system. He clearly hadn't appreciated it.
The lights overhead dimmed, and an awed hush spread over the deck.
"What's going on?"
A spotlight picked out the main stage, a scintillating sheen of sky-blue.
"You'll enjoy this," Arth rasped, his mandibles rattling approvingly. "One of the Lounge's most famous acts."
MacDonagh felt the song before she heard it. A sort of low, vibrating hum that seemed to come from everywhere all at once.
Then, without quite remembering how, there was something standing on the stage, something that seemed to shift and shimmer and slide between existing and not existing all at once, and the air was filled with the music.
