Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyrights

  SPACE

  Emancipation

  Pati Nagle

  Rocket Boy on Call

  Pati Nagle

  Blindsided by Venus in the House of Mars

  Nancy Jane Moore

  Sitting Shiva

  Judith Tarr

  Kinds of Strangers

  Sarah Zettel

  TECHNOLOGY

  Alien Voices

  P.R. Frost

  Abelard’s Kiss

  Madeleine E. Robins

  Perfect Stranger

  Amy Sterling Casil

  For Anthony Sterling Rodgers

  Revenants

  Judith Tarr

  ALIENS

  Its Own Reward

  Katharine Kerr

  Your First

  C.L. Anderson

  Gray to Black

  Brenda W. Clough

  Slick

  Sylvia Kelso

  Ask Arlen

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  HUMANITY

  Steelcollar Worker

  Vonda N. McIntyre

  A Mighty Fortress

  Brenda W. Clough

  Who Killed Science Fiction

  Jennifer Stevenson

  Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

  Irene Radford

  Coming Soon from Book View Press:

  The Shadow Conspiracy

  The Persistence of Souls

  Sarah Zettel

  Shadow Dancer

  Irene Radford

  Available exclusively from Book View Press in December 15, 2009.

  Publication Information

  Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

  An Anthology of Short Fiction

  Edited by

  Phyllis Irene Radford

  and

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  (assistant editor)

  Copyrights

  “Emancipation“ Copyright © 1996 Patricia G. Nagle, The Williamson Effect ed. Roger Zelazny

  “Rocket Boy on Call“ Copyright © 2009 Pati Nagle

  “Blindsided by Venus In The House Of Mars“ Copyright © 2003 Nancy Jane Moore, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine

  “Sitting Shiva“ Copyright © 1992 Judith Tarr, Women at War, ed. Lois McMaster Bujold and Roland Green

  “Kinds of Strangers“ Copyright © 1999 Sarah Zettel, Analog Science Fiction & Fact.

  “Alien Voices“ Copyright © 2007 Phyllis Irene Radford, The Future We Wish We Had ed. Martin H. Greenberg and Rebecca Lickiss

  “Abelard’s Kiss“ Copyright © 1995 Madeleine E. Robins, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

  “Perfect Stranger“ Copyright © 2006 Amy Sterling Casil, Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “Revenants“ Copyright © 1993 Judith Tarr, Dinosaur Fantastic, ed. Mike Resnick and Martin H. Greenberg, DAW Books

  “Its Own Reward“ Copyright © 1992 Katherine Kerr, Whatdunnits I, ed. Mike Resnick, DAW Books

  “Your First“ Copyright © 2009 Sarah Zettel

  “Gray to Black“ Copyright © 2009 Brenda Clough

  “Slick“ Copyright © 2004 Sylvia Kelso, Antipodes: North American Journal of Australian Literature, 18.2

  “Ask Arlen“ Copyright © 1997 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, Analog Science Fiction Magazine

  “Steelcollar Worker“ Copyright © 1992 Vonda N. McIntyre, Analog Science Fact/SF

  “A Mighty Fortress“ Copyright © 2007 Brenda Clough, Helix Magazine

  “Who Killed Science Fiction“ Copyright © 2009 Jennifer Stevenson

  “Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls“ Copyright © 2009 Phyllis Irene Radford

  “The Persistence of Souls“ Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Zettel

  “Shadow Dancer“ Copyright © 2009 by Phyllis Irene Radford

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  SPACE

  Emancipation

  Pati Nagle

  The Custodian of Oporto’s Island stood in the darkness of his house, listening to the growing murmur of voices in the Grove of Malamalama outside. It was not a feast day, when a large attendance might be expected at Nightfall, but the woods were full of people. He knew they had not come just to watch him perform the evening ritual. How he wished his father still lived; his father had loved the ceremonial aspect of the office of Custodian, while he himself dreaded it.

  He donned his green robe and the tall feathered headdress that weighed heavily on him. A tight knot of fear grew in his stomach, for he alone was ultimately responsible for the sacred rite of Maintenance, and that responsibility was about to be challenged. He went to the door of his house, and as he stepped through the curtain that covered it, the drumming began.

  Malamalama, the island’s axis, glowed bright with captured sunlight, its near end terminating in a shielded pole in the center of the ceremonial clearing outside the Custodian’s home. Dancers — men and women in the traditional garb of the hula kahiko, their hair and arms decked in the leaves and flowers of the island — waited around the pole, ready for Nightfall to begin. Among the ti trees at the Grove’s edge and back into the woods beyond were the island’s people, dozens upon dozens of them, more than he had seen at any ritual in months. The Custodian glimpsed his counterpart, the Governor, among the growing throng, and his belly tightened at the sight of her.

  How often had he silently wished for her presence at Nightfall — his favorite hour — the beginning of the time when lovers could tryst in shadowed groves and not be observed by curious eyes from across the island’s sphere. How often had he dreamed of dancing for her alone, then taking her hand and leading her among the waterbelt’s gardens with the gentle night to cloak them. It was not to be. She did not come as Hoku, the sweet, laughing playmate of his childhood, but as Governor of the island, in the people’s name, to put an end to Night.

  The Custodian took his place at the foot of the dais that held the Focus, and the rolling drums burst into rhythm. He chanted an ancient prayer to Pele, his hands echoing the words while the dancers swayed in the clearing surrounded by tall palms and bushes heavy with fragrant blossoms. When Pele had been duly honored, the ipu players began a faster rhythm and the Nightfall dance began. It was centuries old, one of many dances that kept alive the sacred heritage of Maintenance on Oporto’s Island, or Moku Wina as the island was called in the chants.

  Through graceful gestures the dancers told the story of Moku Wina’s creation, how Oporto enticed Pele to come away from Earth and hollow out an asteroid, filling it with all the best things from Earth for the pleasure of his guests. Dancing hands told how the great mirrors outside caught light from the distant sun and fed it into the island through Malamalama, source of all blessings, and how Oporto had decreed the order of days and nights. As his hands led the story, the Custodian’s eyes watched the Governor standing at the clearing’s edge, waiting.

  The chant ended and a hiss of gourd rattles began; the dancers knelt while the Custodian came forward to perform the ritual of Calibration. He kept his eyes on Hoku as he danced up to the pole and turned the key that sent beams of light shimmering toward the four sacred shrines around the clearing. His green robe flowing around him in graceful folds, he danced to each one in turn — Hi’iaka, Poliahu, Laka — passing his hands through the light and verifying its centering in the target on each shrine. As he came to Pele’s shrine he looked up, th
inking a silent, hopeless prayer to the goddess whose rituals he had faithfully performed, and in whom he had never believed. She did not answer him. Shadows flickered over her image as his hands danced through the light, then he turned away, returning to the pole and shutting off the Calibration light before approaching the Focus.

  The music intensified as he climbed the steps. Before him was the Focus that brought light into the island and sent it glowing along Malamalama; a large, ornate lever, completely unnecessary in a mechanical sense, but vital as a symbol of Maintenance. As the Custodian stepped toward it the drums suddenly stopped, and he heard what he had been fearing since the ritual began.

  “Wait, Manuel.“

  He turned to face Hoku, the Governor, his life-long friend, who had come up behind him. She did not smile, but stepped between him and the Focus, her red robe brushing the grass-covered dais. “The Council has made a decision,“ she said, turning to face the people crowding the Grove. Her formal tones carried easily through the clearing and beyond. “Oporto’s Island has been dominated for centuries by the rituals of Nightfall and Dayrise. We treasure our heritage, but we are not savages, or children. We do not need lies to control us, or darkness to inspire us with fear. We are an enlightened people.

  “Nightfall is a wasteful practice. Every time the Focus is shifted away from Malamalama, precious light is spilled into empty space. We can use that light to better our lives.“

  The Governor turned to the Custodian, and he saw that her eyes were hard. “The Council has voted to eliminate the process of Nightfall, effective immediately.“

  The crowd roared approval, and the Custodian felt a sinking in his chest. “That would violate Maintenance procedures,“ he said over the din. “The Manuals clearly state —“

  “The Council consider the Manuals open to interpretation,“ said the Governor. “We have the right to reevaluate procedures when the good of the people is in question.“

  “The Manuals were given to us by Oporto,“ said the Custodian. “To deviate from their instructions will place the island and its people in peril!“

  “The Council has debated this,“ said Hoku, her face a careful mask. “We have concluded that to take the Manuals literally can place us in danger of misunderstanding their metaphorical intent.“

  “Maintenance must be performed,“ said Manuel, hoping he sounded firm despite his growing desperation.

  “Manny,“ said Hoku, her voice dropping to a whisper, “don’t make it hard on yourself. You haven’t got a choice.“ For a moment her eyes poured warm sympathy into his, then she raised her arms, the folds of her crimson caftan sliding down to her golden shoulders as she turned to the people now crowding into the clearing and called out, “Henceforth, we live in light, not in darkness!“

  A cheer went up among the people, and the Custodian’s courage crumbled. He gazed out over the crowd in worry. Here and there a mournful face stared back at him, mostly dancers or his acolytes, the Maintenance technicians. He was their spiritual leader, and they looked to him for guidance in this crisis, but his heart was empty. He had said all he could think to say. The Council ruled the island, and he must bow to their authority. He turned his eyes away from his followers and watched in numb despair as Hoku placed a hand on the great lever of the Focus. She borrowed two gestures from the dance; “light“ and “forever.“ The cheers grew louder.

  Hoku beckoned to a Watcher — one of the guards serving the Council — and posted her on the dais to prevent any attempt to shift the focus. Then the Governor stepped down from the dais and passed into the crowd, touching the hands they reached out to her, moving away under the continuing daylight. The people followed, all but a few faithful who watched the Custodian expectantly as he slowly descended the steps. He stopped in the middle of the clearing and gazed at them, sensing and sharing their fear.

  “What will happen, Manuel?“ a young dancer asked, her worried face framed in the leaves and fresh flowers of her headdress. “Will Pele punish us?“ Her eyes pleaded for reassurance.

  Others gathered around with soft and frightened voices. The Custodian raised his hands to ward off their questions. “I will appeal to the Council,“ he said. It was inadequate, he knew, but it was all he could offer. His followers exchanged doubting glances. He spread his arms in the wavelike gesture of blessing, which seemed to comfort them a little. “Go home,“ he told them. “Close the curtains on your windows and doors. Bring night into your homes, and Pele will know you are faithful.“

  “Thank you, Manuel,“ they answered, the words rippling in a whispering wave through the small group as they drifted out of the clearing toward their homes.

  He watched them go, their hands flashing in the spaces between leaves, speaking in silent, worried gestures. When they had passed out of sight Manuel went into his house and changed his ceremonial garb for light cotton, then went out — barefoot so he could feel the island with each step — through the Grove and down the path that led to the waterbelt. It was his custom to walk along the belt every evening after Nightfall, enjoying shadows and the soft sounds of water as it traveled endlessly around the island’s center; here a trickling stream, there a clever waterfall, lakes like jewels, some with stars flashing underfoot through viewbays lapped by their blue-black depths. The stars were barely visible now, obscured by the continuing daylight. Manuel stopped and glanced up at a viewbay overhead just as the sharp glint of a mirror’s edge passed it. Malamalama glowed steadily bright with the light which should have been diverted for night, some to replenish the great storage cells, the rest to pour off into space. Music began somewhere nearby, and wild shouting; the people celebrating their freedom from darkness. Suddenly Manuel needed to sit down.

  He went to the nearest bench and lowered himself onto it with the weariness of a man many times his twenty-four years. A jasmine bush caressed him with its heavy scent. How had it come to this? he wondered. He was Manuel, descended from a long line of Manuels, the Custodians of the island since the time of the Separation, when Pele had returned her attention to Earth where Hi’iaka was making war on her. It was then that Oporto’s children had lost contact with the children of Earth. It was then that Oporto had created the Council, and set into law the Days and Nights of Moku Wina. It was then that the first Manuel had accepted the lifetime post of Custodian, and pledged to train his successor so that the island would always be cared for. And so it had been, until now.

  Manuel searched his heart for the source of his failure. He had studied and preserved the Manuals in whose honor he was named, faithfully performed all of the Maintenance rituals — of which Nightfall and Dayrise were the most important — listened to his people and striven to answer their needs. He had tried to hide his own doubts, yet despite his best efforts, the people had begun to question the old ways. Some said the gods were not real, that Pele would never return to the island to reclaim her lost children. A growing number said the only true power was the people’s own, and that no ancient system should dictate to them. Such ideas weren’t new — Oporto himself had faced opposition, as had Custodians through the centuries — but never before had a Custodian failed to perform Nightfall. Manuel knew the vital importance of the ritual, of Maintenance, for the island’s continued well-being, but he did not know how to impress it on those who saw Maintenance merely as superstition.

  “Manny?“ came a soft voice behind him, and his muscles tensed. He didn’t answer, but listened to the sound of sandals on the path, the swish of crimson cloth. A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, then looked up at Hoku, unable to keep a stab of resentment from his eyes.

  “I thought I’d find you here,“ she said. “May I join you?“

  “Shouldn’t you be at the celebration?“ he said bitterly, hating himself as the words left him, for of all the people on the island, Hoku was the one he least wished to hurt.

  She gave him the fleeting smile that always made his pulse a beat little faster; Hoku, heart’s friend and gentle leader, daughter of Gove
rnors, descendent of Guests as shown by the reddish sheen of her hair. Though most everyone on the island was of mixed blood, the Governor’s line still bore the distinctive features of Oporto’s heritage. The Council were children of Guests also, while Manuel’s night-black hair proclaimed his descent from Staff. The two groups — Guests and Staff — had shared the governance of the island since the time of Separation; their children ruled after them and kept their names alive, each following his or her parent’s path. Dancers and technicians fulfilled their birthrights, Hoku performed her function, and Manuel, until today, had performed his.

  Hoku sat beside him on the bench, her hand still touching him, gently making circles on his shoulder. A tiny shudder went through him, despair mingled with release of the tension knotting his back.