Brave New Girls: Tales of Girls and Gadgets

by Kate Moretti

I did it. Pater’s theory was right, and I proved it. We’re going to get off this rock. Really.

  Wynn Felstrander squeezed another glob of the gritty blue industrial soap onto her hands. It smelled like turpentine and grease, and it burned like fire if you had the smallest cut on your fingers, but it was the only thing that would touch the Barylian crystal residue. Her fingertips, tinged black, would never go back to their healthy pinkish-white, even if she had a vat of the putrid soap. The smell was enough to keep her optimism in check.

  “How did you do today, little Cricket?” Lorian Felstrander’s deep baritone echoed against the concrete laboratory walls and stainless steel tabletops. Not even the dank room could steal the warmth from her father’s voice.

  “A full kilo of crystals refined, Pater. Sixty grams more than yesterday,” she said as she dried her hands on a dingy shop towel.

  “My genius girl.” He kissed her forehead almost reverently.

  “It’s your method, Pater.”

  “Don’t you dare, Wynn. The concept was mine, but it’s you who spent hours buried in this lab, perfecting the techniques when my head wouldn’t allow it.”

  “There wasn’t much of an alternative. How is your headache today?”

  “No worse than usual, my dear. Not much better, but no worse.”

  Pater looked grim as they put the rest of the equipment back into place. He’d persuaded every government official who would listen that he needed Wynn in the lab more than they needed her in the Barylian mines. Every child on Tenturia was sent into the mines the day after his or her twelfth birthday. Pater had told her from her infancy that she was meant for better things. After years of pleading, the Council had finally listened. And it was fortunate timing, too, for only weeks after Pater appointed Wynn his assistant, his vicious headaches began to keep him in his bed for hours at a time. Now, a single bout could set him down for a week or more. They were getting worse, and Wynn felt powerless to help.

  The only thing she could do was keep the lab going. She spent the past three years in a windowless room, conducting trials to test how effectively the raw Barylian crystals could be refined into useable fuel. It wasn’t an exciting life, but it freed her from a life trapped below the surface.

  “You’ve proven my theory right a dozen times over, Wynn. Once they see the research, there’ll be no more talk of sending you below. It’ll be the University for you as fast as their grandest freight ship can fly you there.”

  The green hills on Narylonia, the Council Planet, swept before her eyes. Five years studying in the pristine halls along with 499 of the brightest scientists in the solar system. Paradise. With a price.

  “I’m not leaving you alone to run the lab, Pater.” Wynn locked the doors behind them and then walked along the grooved path to their little adobe cottage.

  “Ancestors be blessed, yes you will. If I have to bind your hands and haul you there in Old Rattletrap, I will.” His gait took on the surly cadence of a man preparing to do battle.

  “Let’s not argue, Pater.” And let’s not bring on another headache so soon after the last one.

  “No, why don’t you take a walk and get some fresh air before dinner? I’ll let your Aunt Euphadora know you’re done for the day.”

  Wynn nodded and continued on past the cottage to the little knoll that overlooked Windborn Valley beneath the light of the three moons that hung low in the sky. True to the name, the air ripped over the hills, as crisp as the flinty rock that crunched beneath the soles of her heavy government-issued boots. Though she worked in the lab, she had to wear the same brown woolen pants, dull-green jacket, and sturdy work boots that the miners did. A new set was issued every year on her birthday, along with a card:

  “Thank you, Citizen Felstrander, for your continued excellent service to the Council.”

  Code: Be prepared for us to fling you into the pit at a moment of our choosing.

  The bleached white lab coat, soft-blue linen blouses and slacks, and shiny cordovan leather shoes? Those were only issued to the Scientists. Real Scientists came from wealthy families with money for expensive educations. Real Scientists didn’t live on Tenturia. The Council permitted her father’s tinkering because he’d had some moderate success and was remarkably persistent. Who knows how much longer they will humor him?

  She looked out over the valley. The trees, long since harvested, had been replaced by large metal air filters that churned the carbon dioxide into breathable air. They stood twenty feet tall and looked like gigantic pinwheels dotting the horizon. They spewed out breathable air even more efficiently than trees did, according to the Council. But they certainly add nothing to the look of the place, do they? And now that they’ve taken the trees and the fresh water, they’re after every last mineral they can dig from beneath Tenturia’s crust. Picking her dry like vultures gnawing on the dry, brittle carcass of a once beautiful tiger.

  The gaping metal monstrosities were designed by men like Pater, who’d had no choice. Designed by women like Mater, who had sacrificed their health working for the Council in order to earn favor for their families.

  “Wynndolyn! Come eat, child!” Aunt Euphadora stood at the door to the cottage, hands on hips as if calling to a wayward dog.

  Wynndolyn. Child. The two words already had her teeth clenching as she paced back to their little hut. As was her custom, Aunt Euphadora presided over the meal as though she’d tasted the bitter flesh of a Verana melon, even though they’d gone extinct years before. They dined, as always, on miners rations. Tonight was protein patties, powdered thane root reconstituted with a bit of precious water, and a tall glass of Syntholyte. The drink was a violent red, and though it was meant to taste like a blend of sweet fruits, it was hard to make out any flavor over the artificial sweetener. Still, it quenched the thirst.

  “Slop, the lot of it,” Aunt Euphadora proclaimed as she slammed the plates down before them.

  “It won’t be miners’ rations for much longer, Euphadora.” Pater took his knife and fork, carved his protein patty into bite-sized morsels, and ate quickly, but with manners worthy of any Narylonian dining room. Whether he was trying to set the example or finish his meal before he could taste it, Wynn couldn’t tell.

  “So you say.” Aunt Euphadora eyed the gray patty and yellowish blob of thane root with distrust, picking delicately.

  “I do. Once the Council sees the report tomorrow, they’ll have no choice but to appoint me to a proper laboratory and Wynn to the University. No choice at all.”

  “You’re too optimistic for your own good.” Aunt Euphadora clucked her tongue at her brother, shaking her head.

  “And you’re too bent on seeing the worst in every situation.” Pater slammed his glass down, splashing sticky red liquid all over the table.

  “Calm down, Pater. I’m sure Aunt Euphadora just doesn’t want you to be disappointed if anything goes wrong.”

  “It won’t.” Pater threw his napkin on the table before retreating presumably to the confines of his minuscule bookroom.

  By morning, Pater’s headache was so severe, he was unable to leave his bed.

  “Dammit all. I’m not missing that Council Meeting. I don’t care if you have to wheel me there on this bed.” His faced twisted in pain at the effort of speaking.

  “Pater, you must stay in bed. You don’t want to risk…” A stroke. She couldn’t say the words aloud. The reality of her father dying—or worse, left in a state where he was unable to care for himself and lost in perpetual frustration—was the stuff of her worst nightmares. “I can go. I can present the research myself.”

  “Don’t be foolish, child. You can’t fly Old Rattletrap all the way to Narylonia in time. And if you managed to get there in once piece, you’d be laughed out of the Council Meeting.”

  “Hold your tongue, woman!” Pater winced, but sat up in his bed. “
That’s just the thing, Cricket. You can present it just as well as I can. All the papers are on my desk. Do you think you can fly Old Rattletrap?”

  Wynn nodded with more confidence than she felt. Her father used every voyage as a lesson in flight and aerodynamics, but she’d never flown the rickety shuttle without his guidance. It didn’t matter, though. If she didn’t make it to the Council Meeting on time and deliver the research, she’d never be able to bear the look in her father’s eyes. Flying the shuttle was the least of her concerns.

  “Make me proud, little Cricket. I know you can. And remember if anything happens, cras credemus, hodie nihil.”

  “Pater, I don’t understand.” Wynn kissed his hand, her brow furrowed. Is this the stroke coming? Wynn looked up at Aunt Euphadora, who merely shrugged.

  “You will if you have to, Wynn. Now go.”

  Wynn kissed his whiskered cheek and wordlessly retreated to the dusty bookroom, the only sanctuary in the house free from Aunt Euphadora’s relentless cleaning. The report was on his desk in a polished leather folio, the Council’s emblem shining brighter than any other object the muted house. She turned to leave the room but thought better of it and retrieved both her own travel papers, as well as Pater’s, and tossed it all into his scarred leather satchel. She would need her own papers to disembark the ship and Pater’s to prove she was his emissary.

  Aunt Euphadora stood at the doorway and cleared her throat. She eyed the dust and clutter with disdain but did not break her brother’s commandment by crossing over the threshold.

  “No niece of mine is going before the Council dressed like a common miner. Even if this whole enterprise is foolish.”

  “Aunt Euphadora, I haven’t time to argue, and you know as well as I do, I haven’t anything else to wear.” Wynn had no longing for the fancy clothes the Council Members wore, but she had no more love for the drab miner gear than her aunt did.

  “Your father saved a few of your mother’s things. They ought to fit you well enough.”

  For a quarter of an hour, Wynn submitted to her aunt’s styling and primping, even allowing her to rouge her cheeks and paint her lips. She wore a simple, well-made dress of pale blue that was too pale to complement the blue of her eyes and too drab to add spark to her dark-blond hair. It was a few inches too long to be fashionable, but it fit well. She could not say the same for the little white dress slippers that pinched her toes.

  “Lovely,” her aunt pronounced. Wynn hugged her and hurried off to the shuttle pad as quickly as her pained feet would carry her. She avoided making a final farewell to Pater. Her nerves wouldn’t handle a display of sentiment over seeing her in Mater’s clothes.

  She boarded Old Rattletrap, strapped herself in—immediately kicking off the ridiculous shoes—and began powering up the shuttle. It was fully loaded with purified Barylian crystals the night before in preparation for Pater’s voyage, and all safety tests had been cleared. Barely. She placed her right thumb on the ignition pad and waited for the hum of the engine as the system recognized her print.

  Please start, Old Rattletrap. I haven’t the time for you to act up. If you behave, I’ll ask Pater to rename you. Something fancy.

  The aged shuttle obeyed her command and entered orbit seamlessly. The trip to Narylonia wasn’t long—just under three hours from takeoff to touchdown. Wynn felt the prick of pride as the navigation came to her as easily as when Pater had sat next to her, issuing commands. She touched down on the Council’s tarmac with more than an hour before she was due in their Chambers. Per their directives, Wynn waited in her vessel, hands visible on the throttle, waiting for an escort to grant her clearance and permission to exit her ship.

  The escort from the Council Guard, dressed in heavy black armor despite the warmth of the summer sun, looked sour as he read her travel documents and flight visa.

  “It’s not you who’s expected, miss.” He spoke slowly, as he might have spoken to a petulant toddler disobeying his orders.

  “I’m aware, sir. But my father was too ill to attend the meeting.”

  “He ought to have informed the Council and asked permission to send you in his place.”

  “Sir, the nearest Interplanetary Comm Station is five hours from our laboratory by dune buggy. It took me three to fly here by shuttle, which prevented us from missing our meeting with the Council. I know how much they hate to be kept waiting.”

  “Right.” The Council Guard motioned for her to leave her ship.

  She quickly donned her shoes, grabbed the satchel, and followed him off the tarmac. Without conversation, he led Wynn to the imposing white tower where the Council and its staff went about the business of deciding the fate for an entire solar system. With little regard for anyone not in the confines of this building. She bit her tongue against the diatribe budding in her chest. Political dissention wasn’t welcome.

  With a barely perceptible nod, the Council Guard left her to wait in a massive white corridor lined with plush white chairs. She clutched the gleaming report to her chest. Others waited with her, all dressed in crisp white. None of them appeared to be wearing clothes that hadn’t seen the light of day in a decade and that smelled slightly of her father’s foot powder. Only seconds passed before a woman wearing a form-fitting white suit and impossibly tall heels called for Wynn.

  “I’m Dawkins, Miss Felstrander. If you require anything while you’re with us, don’t hesitate to ask.” Dawkins offered her version of a smile, but the poison red of her lips gave the gesture a sinister feel.

  Dawkins opened the door to the Council Chamber with one hand. Given that the door made a fifteen-foot opening, it seemed an impossible feat. Wynn wanted to examine the powering mechanism, but she couldn’t allow her attention to wander.

  The Council Chamber was not just white; it was pristine. Immaculate. It made Wynn feel as though her blue dress was roughly the color of Aunt Euphadora’s dishwater and that she was apt to mark anything she touched.

  The Chairwoman greeted Wynn, her smile significantly less menacing than Dawkins’s had been. “Welcome, Miss Felstrander. We are surprised to see you in your father’s stead, but very pleased you could attend on his behalf.”

  “M-my pleasure,” Wynn stammered, feeling the sweat bead up in her palms.

  “Hand the report to Dawkins, dear, then you may explain your father’s research to us.” The Chairwoman looked down at her papers and wiped her spectacles with a gleaming white cloth. Ready to be riveted, aren’t you?

  “It’s really our research,” Wynn corrected as she opened the satchel and passed the report to Dawkins, whose talon-like fingernails matched her poison-red lips. “My father’s health required me to run the lab and conduct most of the research. The concept was his, but the findings are mine.” I won’t have you thinking Pater sent an errand girl to do his work.

  “Indeed.” The Chairwoman replaced her spectacles and made eye contact with Wynn once more. Dawkins had finished feeding the last of the report through a scanning device, and with the beep of a few buttons, all the charts, graphs, and images were displayed on an invisible screen that separated her from the Council. The words appeared backward to Wynn but would be legible for the Council Members.

  “The interface is fully manipulable. Move things about with your hands as you need them,” Dawkins said in a stage whisper.

  Wynn tested this out by moving a chart three inches to the left. I’d give a week’s rations for one of these in the lab.

  She began explaining her process, her methods, her failures, and her triumphs. Her jitters disappeared the longer she addressed the Council. This was science. She could talk science as long as they had the patience to listen. They peppered her with questions at the end of her presentation, and she answered them with perhaps even more poise than her father would have. She was, after all, the one in the lab, testing his theories.

 
“Thank you very much, Miss Felstrander. One final question for you. How long has your father been ill, and what are his symptoms?” The Chairwoman bore an expression of concern.

  Kind of her to ask after him. They’ve met, after all.

  “He’s been growing sicker over the past three years or so. Headaches. Terrible ones. He was terribly disappointed not to make the meeting today.”

  “We’re extremely sorry to hear that, Miss Felstrander. You’ll be sure to convey our best wishes, won’t you? The Council must conference on your findings, my dear. Dawkins will take you for some refreshment. Please take some time to enjoy yourself while you wait.”

  Code: This is going to take a while. Get comfy.

  Dawkins left her in a large room, just as sparkling white as the Council Chamber. There were lounge chairs upholstered in thick white velvet and two long white tables that seemed to strain under the weight of all the food. Aunt Euphadora would die. And Pater could use some of this to help him get well. She considered how they would react if she stuffed Pater’s satchel full of the enticing food. The scenarios in her mind played out from comical to mortally embarrassing. The laden tables reminded her she’d yet to eat that day. Breakfast had been abandoned when she’d learned Pater was too ill to take his place at the Council Meeting. The stack of gleaming white plates called to her, and she took one carefully in her shaking hands. The plate alone probably cost more than she and her father earned from the Council in a year. They’d likely not care if she broke one, but she wouldn’t have them think she was no more than a backward girl from some rustic mining planet.

  Though she was alone, she took dainty helpings of all the food, wanting to taste the luxuriant dishes the catering staff had labeled with exotic names like “Lavender-Mint Encrusted Turkey Scallions,” “Wild Rosefish and Egg Tartlets with Red Peppercorns,” and the enticing “Hibiscus Dreamcake,” which was impossibly fluffy and ridiculously pink. She perched on the edge of one of the snowy loungers, hoping any wayward crumbs would fall to the floor rather than marking the impractical chair. The rickety dining chairs at home may be ugly, but at least I can eat there in peace. The tarts were savory. The fleshy pink fish and seasoned egg danced on her tongue, while the scallions crunched satisfyingly between her teeth. And the cake… the cake, with its decadent perfume and subtle flavor, seemed to dissolve in her mouth. And I’ll never taste it again, I’m sure.