Eric Brown: Starship Summer

“I like the crystals,” I said.

“But the graphics do nothing for you?”

I hesitated. “Well… To be honest, compared to the crystals—” He saved me further embarrassment. “I know. They’re weak. They don’t work.”

“Matt,” Maddie said, “I don’t know about that. They have something…”

“But not what I wanted to say,” Sommers went on. “They’re third rate. I wasn’t trying. I turned them out because I mistakenly thought that producing something was better than producing nothing. I should have scrapped the lot.”

“You’re too harsh on yourself,” Maddie said. Behind her, Hawk winked at me.

Sommers said, “Not harsh. Honest. I’ll ceremonially burn the graphics when the exhibition’s over. Why don’t you all come along? We’ll have a party.”

I thought I caught something in his tone, a bitterness at odds with his easy-going manner.

We chatted amongst ourselves for fifteen minutes; when Sommers asked what had brought me to Chalcedony, I made something up along the lines that I’d always wanted to visit the planet, that it had seemed a suitably quiet place to retire to.

Sommers looked up. Someone was signalling to him from the exhibition area: the Mayor, gesturing with a microphone.

“Christ,” Sommers said. “They want me to say a few words.

What’s the fascination with artists’ words, for godsake? Don’t the pieces say all there is to say?”

“The price of fame,” Hawk quipped.

“Yeah, you can keep it,” Sommers said. “Look, this place closes in an hour, but the bar upstairs is open till midnight. I’ll sneak off and meet you there at ten, okay?”

“Lovely!” Maddie said.

“Catch you later,” Sommers said, and strode off towards the gesticulating mayor.

While Matt Sommers murmured platitudes into the microphone, Hawk bought a round. Maddie was looking unhappy. “What is it?” I asked.

“Matt,” she said. “He isn’t himself lately. For as long as I’ve known him he’s been optimistic. Now he’s… I don’t know. He seems increasingly bitter these days.”

“You know artists,” Hawk said. “They go through these phases. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I know Matt,” Maddie replied tersely. “And I know there’s something wrong.”

She hurried from the bar and stood at the front of the gathering in the main dome, listening to what the artist was saying.

Hawk shrugged. “She lets things get to her, Conway. And there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it.”

I looked at him, expecting an explanation. He fell silent, so I said, “I’ve noticed… well, what she wears, and she never touches things with her bare hands. She even wore something like oven mitts when she touched the crystals.”

Hawk looked at me, as if assessing whether or not to tell me something. “Maddie’s special, Conway. Look, it isn’t my place to tell you about her. She once made me promise that I wouldn’t try to explain to anyone about her condition. She’ll tell you about it in her own time, believe me.”

I nodded, more than a little intrigued. “You’re close to Maddie, despite all the sparring.”

He just nodded, his eyes far away as he regarded his drink. “Very close,” he said in little more than a whisper.

Sommers wound up his speech and the guests slowly made their way from the dome. Hawk gestured over to Maddie and mimed that we should make our way upstairs. Minutes later we were ensconced in a quiet bar in the apex of the dome, with a three hundred and sixty degree view of the star-filled sky and the Ring of Tharssos streaking overhead.

Minutes later we were joined by the artist, who pantomimed wiping sweat from his brow as if in relief at a near escape.

“That damned woman grabbed me again,” he said as he sat down. “She’s insisting on staging an exhibition down at MacIntyre. I told her I’ve nothing to show.”

“What about taking this one along?” Maddie asked.

Sommers sighed. “Maddie… Look, this exhibition is a mixture of old work and crap. To be brutally frank.”

“Old work? You mean the crystals aren’t…?”

He was shaking his head. “I did them years ago—and the irony is, I rejected them then. I judged they weren’t good enough for the Paris show. I was right. They might pass muster on a backwater colony planet, but not on Earth.”

“I thought they were pretty damned powerful,” I said.

Sommers smiled. He could have said something cruel then, but merely murmured, “Thanks. But only I know when I’ve produced good work.”

Maddie insisted, “But surely it’s up to other people to judge; your public, critics…”

The artist looked frustrated. “Maddie, what do you know about the creative process?” It could have been said with rancour, but Sommers’ gentle demeanour softened the implicit criticism.

“Not much, I admit.”

Sommers took a quick swallow of whisky. I could tell by the unsteadiness of his hand that he’d had a few. “When I create,” he said, “I put everything into the process. It’s what I am. It’s the only thing that makes existence meaningful. I dig deep into myself, what I feel and think, and out it comes—and the catharsis, the sense of accomplishment, is blissful… just so long as I know in my heart that I’ve been true to myself.”

“Are you trying to say—”

“Of course I am,” he said with infinite weariness. “I’ve been turning out lies for a couple of years now. If I quantify personal satisfaction by the quality of the work I produce, then I honestly don’t know why I go on.”

Maddie shook her head, shocked. “Go on creating your art?”

He stared at her, and I was suddenly uncomfortable. “Go on living,” he said.

A silence sealed over his words, a lengthening awkwardness not one of us knew how to break.

Then Sommers said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all maudlin.” “But Matt,” Maddie said, “your work is far, far better than most artists working today.”

“That doesn’t make it good. I can do far better.”

Maddie reached out, her pale hand hovering over his. But she remembered herself, and quickly withdrew. “I think you’re being needlessly harsh—” she began.

“If you think I’m lying to you, Maddie, then go on—touch me. Go on, take my hand. You’ll see then, won’t you?” There was bitterness in his voice, a challenge in his eyes.

Maddie winced and looked away.

I just stared at them both, mystified. I wondered if the alcohol had affected me, and I had missed something vital that would have made the exchange comprehensible.

Sommers whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Maddie stood up quickly and strode to the curving cover of the dome, staring up at the Ring.

“Dammit!” Sommers swore under his breath.

He banged down his empty glass and lurched from his seat. For a second I thought he was about to cross to Maddie, apologise. Instead he headed for the spiral staircase and stumbled down, gripping the central rail and almost sliding down and around.

When he was gone, I said to Hawk, “What the hell was all that about?”

Hawk shrugged. “You know artists…”

“No, I mean about Maddie touching him?”

“Ask Maddie when she’s in a better mood, David.” To Maddie he called, “Okay, Mad? Look, come and finish your drink. Matt’ll get over it. He’s going through a lean period. Next time you see him, he’ll be all smiles and optimism.”

Maddie turned and stared at us bleakly. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” Hawk said, far from convincingly.

Maddie returned to the table and took up her mug. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him this low. You heard what he said about going on living.”

“He was exaggerating for effect. He was drunk, for chrissake.”