by Kate Moretti
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ursula Osborne is finishing her master’s degree and dissertation while working with books. She’s a nerd, a bookworm, and an endless fangirl. She dabbles in many hobbies and enjoys baking and traveling, but wishes she could go to more places.
THOUGHTS ON BRAVE NEW GIRLS
Ursula decided to participate in the anthology not only because she full-heartedly supports encouraging girls to enter STEM careers, but also because she wants to see an end to smart girls dumbing themselves down to fit into a judgmental society that tells girls that smart is not sexy. She also has a soft spot for smart, educated, insufferable know-it-alls.
Illustration for “Robin Hacker” by Ken Dawson
PANIC
by Tash McAdam
The reams of code stream across the screen so fast it’s almost impossible to track them. Almost. I lean in, overheated and frantic, and swipe errant sets of numbers into their proper places, my hands dancing over the flashing green boxes and strips of information. The VR helmet obscuring my upper face shifts uncomfortably, catching the hairs behind my ears.
I should shave my bloody head, just for these tech classes.
The air is acrid with the scent of too many people in too small a space. I catch a whiff of something particularly unpleasant and almost miss a trap the coder has written in. It would have ended the test early, with a fail, and going after the key to the trap involves dodging several more bugs that try to take over my console.
C’mon, c’mon, you slippy little monster, I think anxiously. If I drop any lower in the rankings, I run the risk of being bounced out of the trainee program.
Finally grabbing what I need, I strip off the excess data and plug the necessary numbers into their homes. I grin and shift position, just enough to reach blindly for the depression on the side of my console. Breathing in, I scan the screen one last time as my right hand gropes for the finish button, while my left finishes correcting minor inconsistencies in my data. I find the mark with the pad of my right finger, pause for one last heartbeat, and then push.
A shrill sound makes me wince, and my screen darkens. Then my name pops up: “Abial Berke: PASS” in block capitals, dances across the deck. I hate my name… my first, anyway. I should have changed it when I got here, but I didn’t even think of it. The other kids call me “Ay-bile,” not “Ay-bee-al” like they should. But my family name means “hard,” which I like. I’m not hard–my daily trouncing in the gym attests to that–but I wish I were.
I am good with computers, though.
I sit up and breathe out. The trailing victory announcement will be flashing up on the other screens, as well, letting my competitors know I’ve won. They kick my ass in every other arena—literally so in the physical training—so this small triumph feels great.
Take that, suckers. Every one of the other teenagers in the room is there for one reason—a reason I happen to think is stupid. They all want to play at tin soldiers, off to fight the bad guys. None of them really sees the beauty in the virtual world, the power that comes with intellectual victory. Who wants to be a warrior, facing death and glory, when you can use the net to get what you need? Idiots, that’s who.
A smug smile twists the side of my stress-bitten lips, and I lean back in the rolling chair, swinging one foot up to rest it on my other knee. Yanking my helmet off, I place it carefully on the waiting hook and lace my fingers behind my sweaty head. Then I swivel so I can take in the rest of the room. Suddenly, the boy to my right slams his whole palm against his finish button, fury etching deep lines in his forehead as he glances at me. I bat my eyelashes while his screen also dims, the scrolling “Michel Torom: PASS” visible even at my angle.
Dammit. I thought for sure that last trap would get him; he’s usually so cocky. And after the stunt he pulled yesterday, switching out my transistor for a broken one, I could use a break. Like him failing this class. We’re neck and neck on the score sheets—neither of us the best, but close. And only the top trainees get to test early and maybe get out of this underground rathole. I know we’re safe down here, and out there, we’re easy meat for the Institute, who’ll take us right off the streets and turn us into mindless slaves. But I want to test clear so I can get a damn suntan.
The thought of finally getting to go back outside makes me grin, and I look around at the room. The other students are still hovering over their own machines, trying to complete the hacking task.
Slow pokes. And they think they’re going to make it as agents?
Glancing back at the kid next to me, I can’t help but prod the beast. After all, he rubbed it in yesterday when I couldn’t get my hardware to power up—because he made sure I got faulty equipment.
“Got there eventually, Michel?”
My tone serves to irritate him further, and he pushes back from his computer station, hands slamming against the front of the console to send him flying. His chair skids and then stops so abruptly that it judders in place for a moment, visibly defying the laws of physics.
He’s used his telekinesis to stop himself slamming into my chair.
Ace.
I smirk. “Oh, and using telekinesis in a power-down zone. Boy, you’re on a roll this evening.” That’s going to be on camera.
It serves him right. Michel has a higher power ranking than I do, but he has less control. He has a tendency to rely on telekinesis for mundane tasks, which is a no-no for the trainees as we take our first steps toward becoming freedom fighters. If we want to go outside, we’ve got to be able to hide. The big bosses need us to blend in with the normal population, and using powers like that instead of your body is a sure way to get noticed.
Being noticed usually results in disappearing—or being stoned to death. I grew up out there; I should know. And Michel doesn’t have a clue what it’s really like. He’d be well advised to tone it down a bit. Not that he’ll listen to anyone saying so.
He growls and tenses, clearly about to scramble out of his seat and come at me, when a clipped voice crackles out of the earbuds in both of our headsets.
“Trainees 1206 and 7302, report to 404 immediately.”
Nuke. How’s there always someone watching when you don’t want them to be, and no one watching when everything goes wrong and you need help?
Wrinkling my nose in irritation, I get out of my seat, sling my flatpack onto my back, and take a last satisfied look at the screen, which has changed to display my ranking and speed as the other students finish and join me on the board: 7302: 84.12, 1206: 86.21, 1356: 87.01. New scores are blinking up faster now.
More than two minutes quicker than you, dirt bag.
Michel wouldn’t be that bad if he stopped trying to beat other people by sabotaging them. For someone who wants to be a hero, he sure doesn’t show much in the way of honor. I’m all for taking pride in my victories, but does tricking people really count?
I head for the door, unable to hide the smug look on my face as I pass the other hackers. Those who are still entering data are moving as fast as they can, desperate not to click over the time limit shown by the holographic clock projected onto the otherwise-barren metal walls. Anything under ninety minutes is a pass, and that end zone is rapidly approaching.
Michel is already in the long corridor when I slope out the door. His fast pace easily outstrips my unhurried amble, even though I’m two inches taller than he is. He’ll be able to tell his side of the story first, but with the vid of his telekinesis and my awesome finish time, I’ll probably get a reprimand for unprofessional conduct at worst, if I’m lucky with the instructor. I brighten up a bit. Hopefully, it’ll be Sander. He runs the tech division of the rebel fighters, and since I helped him out with redesigning the internal network, he’s been easy on me.
Because he’s a huge softy, and he clearly likes me. Plus, I think he gets what it is to be a freak.
Not so for me. I mean, I want the revenge but not in the same way they do. I was a street kid, one of those who grew up rough in the outskirts. I had no idea what psionic power was like, but apparently, it’s not that uncommon for telepathy to manifest after puberty hits, even without training. I certainly hadn’t been trained… not until I was brought here. And I appreciate what they’re doing for me, but they can keep their war. I just want a quiet life. I’d be dead without ARC—I know that, and I’m grateful… but in many ways, I was better off before. Now I’m in constant danger because I have powers the Institute wants—and because I’m associated with ARC.
The truth is, of course, that even though I don’t really want these powers, they do offer me a different life, now that I have them. I have a place here—and a future—if I accept it. I’m playing with technology unheard of on the streets. And they want me to be an agent, with my strength, to join the rebel forces trying to relieve the chokehold that strangles a poverty-stricken population. That’s what the gifted are supposed to do. But I was born for logic strings and code loops, made to sink into virtual reality and twist it to my will.
That brings me back around to preferring the quiet solitude of a computer screen and the satisfaction of a well-phrased function. That’s the only fight I want to be part of.
The first I knew about the underground war that’s been carrying on for centuries was when an ARC operative picked me up, after an altercation with my mother turned bad. If you called dangling your mother the wrong way up with your mind—and not being able to put her back down—bad. It still makes me smile when I think about it, though… scrawny legs kicking wildly, ragged skirts bunched around her waist.
Dozy slint deserved it. Spending my wages on twitch.
I was working as a solar monkey, which was a nuking unpleasant job, crawling through the tight, claustrophobic tunnels that served as access for the inner-city solar roadways. It was me who brought in the only wages, and I was barely eking out a living. My mother’s drug habit was making it nearly impossible to keep my younger sibs fed. They’re probably dead now; the Institute took them after I disappeared. But there’s nothing I could have done about that. Without me, they likely would have starved.
Anyway, when my mother raised her arm to slap me across the face, she found herself upside down, wriggling in midair with no sign of support. It was unreal! She was stuck there for about half an hour before Kion, my rescuer, arrived. I couldn’t believe what he was saying, but he talked me down, explained what was happening. Somehow, he managed to get me out of there before the city Watch—police in the pocket of the government—showed up. They’d have shot me full of tranks and taken me straight to hell, delivering me into the hands of the Institute. If they’d caught me, I could have looked forward to a life of deprivation and isolation, as well as having my memories wiped so I couldn’t threaten my captors. He should’ve rescued my brother and sisters, too, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight enough to tell him.
He brought me here, to the underground, metal-lined base that provides some protection from the telepathic Readers of the Institute. They track down errant psionically gifted individuals, people like me, and co-opt or kill them as they deem necessary. The young ones are always taken because we’re trainable. Soft brains, I think. If I had been taken, I would have been a prisoner, used for my powers.
Underfoot, the corridor slants down a little as I follow Michel, and I turn my attention back to the real world. By the time I get to 404, the door’s shut. A little wait, a little smiling/apologizing/promising to do better, and I’m headed back to my dorm. I make sure to shove Michel with my shoulder hard as I round the corner past the mess hall. He catches himself with telekinesis, and he’s so quick off the mark that I can’t help being impressed. I throw a grin over my shoulder as I duck through the door.
I wish he would stop being such a dork. I’d rather work with him than against him, but ever since I got put into his class, he’s been starting things and getting me in trouble. I’m already older and bigger than the whole pack of them—like I don’t stand out enough without him switching my equipment or scrubbing my code.
My roommate, Serena, is helping her baby brother learn to meditate when I arrive. Boring. They’re both sitting against the far wall. Serena’s pale skin blends eerily with the white T-shirt she’s wearing. Although they have the exact same face, Damon’s browner than I am, and it’s always funny to see them together. The whole scene is adorable, but I wanted to hang out with my buddy, and I can’t handle the kid’s wise-assery right now.
So I roll my eyes and set my pack down before stripping off my trainee uniform. I’ve got a couple of hours free—three, if I skip dinner—and I plan to make the most of it. We’re scheduled from virtual dawn to virtual dusk, and after all that sitting, I have some serious energy to burn off. I trade my sweaty clothes for a fresh set and bung the dirty ones into the laundry chute, then I quickly scribble a note on the wall screen, letting Serena know I’ll be in the gym. If I’m lucky, Kion will still be training, and I’ll be able to get some telekinesis practice in with the stocky assistant commander. He’s always happy to work one-on-one, and with his gorgeous body to look at, the time passes quickly.
With difficulty, I drag my mind away from the thought of his muscled torso in a clinging carbon-fiber tee. Yum.
The corridors are bustling with personnel, soldiers, and civilians, who all walk briskly and with purpose. We’re an underground army, which isn’t usually known for being full of fun and games, but the kids push, scream, and yell just like I remember them doing in the slums. Albeit with thick pads of muscle and superpowers, which make them a bit more dangerous to me as I try to remain unobtrusive and sidle past them. My footsteps echo on the sheet metal that lines the floor and every inch of our “home” to keep us isolated from the world above. The strip lighting is bright, mimicking the noon daylight that’s burning up the surface.
The gym doors are huge, scavenged from somewhere and warped with telekinesis and brute strength to fit the iron frame. I press my thumb against the electronic lock, and the shutter slides open with a grumble. My luck is out, though, and Kion’s not there, so I resign myself to sparring with some of the other trainees making up their physical hours. I start working with a partner, and I’m trying really hard not to get hit in the face again—my lip is already split and bloody—when the massive ceiling lights cut out, along with the whirring air coolers.
Suddenly, it’s pitch-black, and I can’t even see my opponent.
Shouts of surprise are followed by soft thuds as people drop down from gym equipment to the mats. In a moment of chaos, someone shoves me to one side as they run past, and then a datapad blinks to life, providing a faint source of blue-tinted illumination. Everyone in the gym gravitates toward that corner, all talking at once.
What the he
ll? Power cut? We gotta get the damn gennies fixed. That’s the third time this month.
Not wanting to join the milling crowd of twenty or thirty people–all yelling and gesturing, like that’s going to help–I pick my way to the side of the room. The door where I entered has an electronic lock, and it’s engaged, but the small screen is dark. I press my thumb against it, hoping for a reassuring click. It doesn’t come.
From behind me, someone suddenly shouts, “The door’s jammed. The lock ain’t workin’!”
You think?
Then an intense stuttering noise fills my ears, and there’s screaming—not the kind of screaming that means you’re merely frightened; the kind that speaks of raw pain. Someone is injured, badly injured. Visceral, animal cries echo against the high walls, and my throat closes like someone has clenched a fist around it. The faint source of light vanishes, plunging the room into blackness as heavy as tar, weighing my limbs down.
My blood freezes, and I fold, wedging myself against the jamb of the door without even thinking about it, crouching low. I pull my mental shields tight, covering my thoughts to hide my mind as well as my body, just like I’ve been learning to do. The metal frame is cold and hard against my thigh—a welcome reference point in the nothing that surrounds me. I’m too afraid to reach out with my thoughts, not a delicate enough Reader to escape notice. And without my psionic abilities or my vision, I feel blind in a way I’ve never experienced before, even back when I didn’t have power. I’ve adjusted to my new source of information, and now I can’t cope without it. My fear chokes me, threatening to break out of the barrier of my tightly clamped, creaking jaw.
A moment later, the screaming tapers off, and an unnatural hush descends over the large room. Then the unmistakable crack of an energy weapon sounds, complete with a blinding burst of light to my right, maybe forty meters away. There’s a thud and a muted grunt… someone trying not to scream? Pretty smart, unless whoever is in here shooting has night vision goggles, in which case, being quiet isn’t going to save any of us. Since whoever it is was smart enough to cut the power and lock us in, I figure they probably have Readers or night vision goggles, or both. If they’re happy to attack us in the dark, they’ve got to have equipment.
