>From: kmrc@ellis.uchicago.edu (Melanie A. Miller)
Subject: STORY: Star Quality
Date: 17 Nov 91 21:08:42 GMT

Star Quality
By Melanie Miller


	I remember. . .
	Benjamin Grayson opened his eyes, struggling out of the
dream.  He had been with Alicia Wilcox, his costar, in a scene from
their latest movie--smooth, blond Alicia, and the dreamscene had
moved beyond an R rating into censored territory.  His fingers
slipping underneath the velvet strap of her monogown, exploring the
feel of silky skin.  And then, that thought--
	I remember. . .
	An image, textbooks on an old wood desk.  Grassy lawn, with
blue sky above it.  It had a flavor to it, a texture of dread and
anticipation, pushing him away from Alicia, out of sleep.  An old,
treasured fear.
	Of what?
	Slowly, he focused on the bedside clock.  7:30 PM projected
in ruby holograms, hanging in the darkness.  Time to get up, get
ready for the party.  It wouldn't do to keep the head of a major
Hollywood studio waiting.
	And he would never do something as rude as that, although
he could if he felt like it.  Benjamin Grayson was one of the elite
of the 20's.  Stars.  And he was under contract with Maximillian
Hiller, the agent of the decade.  Everyone wanted to belong to the
Hiller Group, and only the best, the hungriest, would be admitted.
Maximillian (never Max--he hated diminutives) didn't handle
anything else.
	All of Maximillian's clients were standouts, in one way or
another.  Professional, other agents said with envy.  Maximillian
never had to cover up embarrassing pasts, arrange special hospital
stays, pay off local law enforcement.  The Hiller Group were actors
first and foremost, dedicated to their craft .  Not to providing
filler for the tabloids.
	And part of their craft was to project an image.  As
Maximillian suggested, Grayson arrived at the party just late
enough to make an entrance.  The eyes of the crowd--all people
involved with the Business--crawled over his skin agreeably,
feather-light massage on the ego.  Something clicked inside his
head and he went into automatic pilot:  Benjamin Grayson, The
Actor.  Watch him walk and talk, folks, like a real human being.
Gossip about him, wonder who he's sleeping with this week, what his
next 3-D will be.  And, in a softer tone, how long can he last?
	To hell with it.  I'm a star.
	Grayson kept the grin up, easing into the crowd.  Nod here,
kiss a cheek there, get into the groove of things.  Project..  He
saw Maximillian with Alicia, and waved.  And when a director
intercepted him, launching into a not-so-subtle film offer, Grayson
managed to catch Maximillian's eye.
	"Benjamin, my boy, good to see you," the agent said,
cutting into the conversation.  Maximillian looked like the ideal
parent--six feet tall, a strong, kindly face, dark hair edged with
gray at the temples.  The only thing that spoiled the image was his
eyes, a curious shade of light, oddly flat blue.  "Enjoying
yourself?"	
	"Naturally," the actor said, giving the agent an artificial
smile.  He glanced at Alicia (I remember) and faltered.  "Jorge and
I were discussing his next picture," he said, as if to explain the
break.
	"Which Benjamin would be perfect for," Jorge added,
delighted to have Maximillian's attention.  "The part was
practically written for him, but he keeps dodging me--"
	"Which he is supposed to do," Maximillian said smoothly, a
new undertone to his words.  The ice was something casting agents
and directors had come to recognize--a warning shot over the bow.
Keep Off, Private Property.  "All business deals are done through
me, as I'm sure you know."
	Jorge drew up, wary.  "I'm aware of that," he said,
slightly cowed.  "I simply wanted to run the idea past Benjamin--"
	"Which you've done.  Benjamin, why don't you escort Alicia
around, while Jorge and I discuss his idea."  Maximillian handed
the actress to Grayson, then guided the director off to a corner.
	Alicia glanced after them, the demure expression melting
into a smile.  "This is the third time he's handed me off while he
sets up a deal," she said, half-laughing.  "I'm starting to wonder
if I should ask for a cut."
	"I don't think you'll get it," Grayson said, grinning.
"He's the top hustler in town."
	"I like it that way.  It makes me feel more secure."  She
had a voice that had been described variously as soft, lilting,
honeyed.  Tonight, Grayson thought, it was elegantly sweet;
champagne and strawberries.  "By the way, he has some work for us
afterwards."
	Grayson nodded, understanding.  The host, and probably the
hostess.  It was part of the job when you worked with the Hiller
Group.  The dream floated into consciousness again, overlaying the
party.  I remember. . .
	"What's the matter?" Alicia asked.  She looked up into his
face, smile turning down at the corners.  "You faded out for a
minute."
	"Nothing."  He shrugged the dream off, back into his
subconscious.  "You want that drink?"
	"Of course.  Then we'll entertain the peons."
	Two hours later, he took a break from the mingling.  Drift
from one group to another, be witty, amusing--even if you were used
to it, it could get tiring after a while.  Alicia was still
downstairs chatting with people in the vast ballroom, and Benjamin
wanted a chance to be alone with the night sky, polluted as it was.
He leaned out on a second-floor balcony, tracking faint traces of
starlight that made it through the smog.  Memories started bleeding
through again, subconscious fragments:

	I remember. . .
	Another time, another place.  Farther east, where people
only watched the stars on holovision, never thinking to become one
of them.  Maximillian had come to the campus right after
graduation, where he met Tim McCarthy for the first time.  Benjamin
felt like a ghost, watching Maximillian and the boy walking on the
campus's quadrangle.  The sky had been blue, very clear, and the
sun had been warm on their shoulders as Maximillian explained how
the boy could make a great deal of money in the entertainment
industry.
	Tim insisted that he wasn't an actor--the commercial had
been his girlfriend's idea.  He wanted to be an agricultural
researcher.  Maximillian demurred--acting talent wasn't necessary,
not with the technological options at his command.

	"You look lonely."
	Not moving, Benjamin tried on a small grin that didn't seem
to fit.  "Not really."
	He glanced sideways.  Alicia's profile was framed, outlined
by the lights of downtown L.A.  Classically beautiful.  He tried to
come up with the right answer, something that would describe the
dreams he'd been having lately, but nothing seemed right set
against a background of the city's light.  Especially I'm afraid of
my memories.
	They stood there in companionable silence, the cool night
breeze ruffling through their hair, before he said, "Do you ever
remember what it was like?  Before?"
	Alicia sighed.  "I don't think about it," she said.  "You
shouldn't, either.  It only confuses you."
	"I know.  But sometimes I can't help it," Benjamin said,
the words moving sluggishly now.  "It's like I'm being invaded by
memories.  I don't know what to do."
	Alicia shook her head, moving away from him.  She didn't
want to talk about it, he knew.  Alicia was the ideal
actress--calm, competent, perfectly adjusted to the change in her
life.  She had a magic that critics kept comparing to the screen
greats--Gish, Hepburn, Streep.  Great implants.  Alicia was never
confused.  "Maybe you should go see Dr. Berringer," she suggested,
brusque.  "Have him take a look at you.  You might need an
adjustment."
	Unconsciously, Benjamin reached up and touched the skin
underneath his right ear, massaging it with two fingers.  That was
where they'd gone in, with the surgical probes.  "Maybe," he
agreed.

  	A small surgical procedure, the newest form of wetware, and
Tim would have the skills of the greatest thespians at his
fingertips, Maximillian said.  The silicarbon circuits would
interface directly with his brain, a biocompatible network riding
the limbic ring.  All he would have to do is think about the
network, and it would generate controlled emotional states in
response to incoming stimuli.
	You mean it's an artificial persona, Tim said, quiet.  He'd
heard about the procedure from friends, horrified at first, then
fascinated.  It wouldn't be me, just some software riding around in
my head.
	You make it sound so nefarious, Maximillian answered,
smiling.  Like it's a form of mind control.
	Well, isn't it?
	And this time, Maximillian did laugh, the father figure
amused by a fearful child.  Of course not, he said.  You would have
control over your every thought, your every mood.  Your implant
would simply allow you access to a greater range of emotions, the
skills you would need to be a great actor.  Think of it as a
built-in acting coach.

	"Anyway, I came out here to find you," she continued, her
voice growing warm again.  "Maximillian's waiting for us upstairs."
	"All right."  Benjamin turned, willing the vagueness to be
gone.  He took control again, the smooth persona clicking into
reality.  Turn up the charm, boy.  It's showtime.

	Grayson dug his toes into the satin, thrusting harder.  The
woman beneath him moaned, winding slippery legs around his hips,
whispering obscenities under her breath to urge him on.  Across the
hall, he thought, Alicia was probably doing the same thing with the
studio head, unless the man got into something kinky.  Not
impossible, but Alicia knew how to handle that.
	He jerked again, and again, until it was finished.
Naturally, he made sure the woman came first--sometimes, he could
even hold back until she had two orgasms, once even three.  After
love (because with him, it was love of a sort--wasn't that
programmed into the implants?), he slid off to the side, holding
her.  The apr-sex comedown that women needed, he told himself.
If you were going to do a job, do it right.
	In the quiet of the room, he felt the other memories
sliding up to him, demanding notice.  He tried to ignore it, to be
the perfect actor.  Maximillian had said this would happen.
Sensory bleedover, he called it--sometimes the implants didn't
filter correctly.  But tonight, Benjamin was too tired to fight.
He let them come, shivering under their weight:

	Why me, Tim asked.
	Because you're the American ideal, Maximillian had said.
They want your type, your voice--they'll love you.  Maximillian
smiled, the cool charm turned up a notch.  And because it would
make us both a great deal of money, he added gently.  Tim flushed,
he mention of money tying a hard knot in his gut.  There weren't
many scholarships for aggie scientists anymore, and he had been
living on loans and side jobs.  And with graduation, the loans
would start coming due.
	Five years with the Hiller Group and you would have the
money for your bills, for a graduate degree, whatever you want,
Maximillian said.  Five years with us, and you will have financial
freedom for the rest of your life.
	In exchange for five years of slavery, Tim said, horribly
surprised at a sudden, tiny desire to believe Maximillian.  An
artificial persona was interesting when you were sitting around
with friends in a safe dorm room, your mind still your own.  The
thought of actually carrying something like that in your head--
	I wouldn't call it slavery, Maximillian replied.  It's
simply acting, taken to the ultimate degree.

	The woman eased into sleep.  Only then did he slip out of
bed, gathering his clothes and looking for a bathroom where he
could shower.  Luckily, the bedrooms were connected with a palatial
bath.  Soundproof door, he noted, closing it behind him.  Good.
	Alicia was already there, washing herself at the bidet.
She turned, looking over her shoulder, and gave him a cheerful
smile.  "How was it?"
	"Not bad."  Grayson went through his clothes, hanging them
on a towel rack.  "Better than last time.  At least she was in
pretty good shape.  Yours?"
	Alicia shrugged.  "About the same.  He likes to be on
bottom."
	Grayson grunted understanding, stepped into the shower to
wash off the woman's sweat.  After a minute, Alicia slipped in.
"You mind?"
	"No."  He handed her the soap, and received a sudsy
washcloth as a prize.  Like cats on good terms, they washed each
other.  Asexual, friendly.
	He was incapable of feeling any real attraction for Alicia,
wet and slick as she was.  He was sure she felt the same
way--Maximilian had suggested that a romance between them wouldn't
be in their best interest.  He reached down to turn off the water,
when a showed appeared through the steam, watching them.
	"Lovely," the studio head whispered above the water's hiss.
"Lovely, children."
	Grayson felt Alicia freeze, next to him.  Waiting for the
next suggestion, he thought disjointedly.  Sure, we do requests, an
insane voice sang in his mind.
	"I'd like to see a love scene."  The man leaned up against
the sink, his eyes slipping over them through the moisture.  "Now."
	Compliantly, Grayson straightened up.  His indifference
melted, changed to desire.  His need was reflected in her eyes,
blue and eager, as she rubbed up against him, the water from the
shower no longer her only wet.  He grabbed her roughly, the way the
studio head wanted him to hold her, the water beading on their
skin.

	It had been the money that finally convinced him.  A
guaranteed $100,000 the first year; after that, the sky was the
limit.  Whatever his talent could pull in--a million and up wasn't
impossible, they had said.
	What if nobody wanted to hire me, he had asked.  The
administrative section of the Hiller Group just laughed.
Maximillian hasn't picked a loser yet, they told him.  Don't worry.
You'll be fine.
	And he had.  After the surgery, renamed Benjamin Grayson,
he had co-starred in a fluff sitcom.  Neilsons went through the
roof--the public loved him.  After that, it was a string of
steadily bigger movies, until he was signed as the star for his
current 3-D, American Players.  Women walked up to him everywhere,
offering him their bodies, anything he desired.  Men wanted to be
like him.  He was successful, a star, just as Maximillian planned.
	And his memories of life as Tim McCarthy were dimming.

	The sun was a faint shimmer over the Hills when he finally
got home.  Good party, he thought, throwing his jacket over the
couch.  Another one for the record books.
	The events of the night, after the party--well, they didn't
involve him, not directly.  The sex had started after his first
movie, with the producer and his wife.  Grayson remembered it in a
clinical way--the quiet summons from Maximillian, being delivered
to the hotel by limo.  Wrapped up like a birthday present, he
thought.  It had been his first experience with a threesome, the
feel of male skin next to his own.  Maybe that was when the dreams
began to bleed over into his conscious mind; the ghost of Tim
McCarthy screaming in agony, he thought morbidly.
	He had asked Maximillian about the sex once, and the agent
had explained it.  These people were important in the Business, and
wanted intercourse with the godhead of entertainment.  Contact with
beautiful bodies, nothing more.  And it was part of their job to
supply that contact to the right people, he'd added.  Every member
of the Hiller Group did it.  Nothing new--actors and actresses had
been doing it for years.  The implants was an improvement on the
situation, a way to protect themselves emotionally.  Let the
implants carry you through, Maximillian had suggested before taking
him up to that first hotel room.  They'll know what to do.
	Still musing, he poured himself a glass of orange juice.
Standard morning ritual--orange juice, vitamin.  More suggestions
from Maximillian.  Thank God we're not shooting until noon, he
thought, shrugging off the rest of his clothes, standing in his
briefs in the middle of the living room.  At least I can get some
sleep.

	He had wanted to talk to Alicia afterwards, but she had
gone straight home.  Instead, Maximillian had been waiting
downstairs for him.  Alicia told me you've been having some
problems, he'd said, slipping into the father confessor role.  Like
to talk about it?
	And for the first time since Benjamin had started acting,
he didn't.  He didn't want to talk to Maximillian Hiller, father
surrogate, chaperone, super agent.  He wanted to work the memories
out on his own.  But Maximillian wouldn't hear of it.
	I told you that might happen, he'd said easily, on the way
home.  Your body's immunological system is reacting to the implant.
We'll have Dr. Berringer look at it tomorrow.
	I don't want him to, Benjamin had said.  But Maximillian
insisted.  It'll only confuse you if you allow this to continue,
Benjamin, he said.
	My name is Tim, he said irrationally.
	Maximillian was silent for a moment.  He finally said, in
this place and time, your name is Benjamin.  In two years, when
your contract is up, you may decide to go back to that name.  The
agent smiled, and Benjamin felt chilled by that smile.  Or you may
prefer the one you have now.
	No, I don't think so.  But the words brought a strange,
deep confusion.  His life seemed to be a series of facets, beads
strung on a chain.  Somewhere, those facets had changed, become
something new that was called Benjamin Grayson.  Did that make him
real?  And what did that make Tim McCarthy?  Unreal?
	He could imagine the resurrection.  The chain would snap,
oh yes.
	I can make the appointment for you this afternoon,
Maximillian said.  Just a suggestion, of course.
	Dully, he nodded.  Make the appointment.

	The implants were such a little thing, they had said, right
after the operation.  Just to carry you along.  And they'd led him
into a new life, something that Tim McCarthy had never imagined.
	And the strangers?  Midnight blending of flesh.  It was
another part of the life.  Nothing personal, he could hear
Maximillian say--it was only the body.
	Changing his mind, Grayson carried his orange juice out to
the terrace, cool morning air marbling his skin.  He looked over
the sleeping city and imagined them out there--the audience that
wanted him to be what he was now, not the repository of someone
they didn't know.
	And didn't care about.
	Suddenly, he felt lonely, wishing for the memory of blue
sky again.  Wanting a past he knew was his own.  Knowing that it
would never be there.
	Oh, I remember. . .