Brave New Girls: Tales of Girls and Gadgets

by Kate Moretti

  Chainsaw moved in the direction Madison was pointing. “Stop,” she said and reached out to the thing she had thought was a robot.

  It was made of plastic. Madison pushed it over easily, and it fell with a thud. Then she remembered that stores like this one used to display clothing on plastic human-like statues; she had seen pictures of them in her history lessons.

  “CHAINSAW!” Pratt’s voice cut through the darkness.

  “Hide!” she cried.

  Chainsaw started moving, and before she could ask where they were going, Madison made out an old escalator, its steps still in place. Chainsaw took them four at a time. Even with Madison’s added weight, it was no effort for the robot.

  The upstairs was almost as dark as the storage room through which they had entered the store had been. But Chainsaw could see well enough, and Madison let the robot lead. There was a sudden loud explosion, and she let out a scream.

  Pratt had fired his gun, perhaps making the same mistake she had earlier, thinking the plastic statues were robots. Madison was terrified. Pratt was going to take Chainsaw back in pieces if he had to. He might even kill her for daring to lie to him. She’d seen something wicked in his eyes—the same look the man from the other night had possessed when he shoved her father down.

  “Madison, you’d better give that robot up to me now, girl!” Pratt yelled.

  She wanted to call out to Pratt to tell him where they were and beg him not to kill her. Maybe going to Brazil and wearing those stupid girly clothes wouldn’t be so bad. Besides, how many other robots had Chainsaw destroyed? It wasn’t like she was helping an innocent person, was it?

  “I will give myself up,” Chainsaw said in a low voice.

  “What?” Madison said, coming out of her own thoughts.

  “It would be safer for you,” the robot explained. “I cannot let you come to harm.”

  “But we could fight him,” she said. “You’re stronger than he is.”

  “I cannot harm a human,” Chainsaw said. “Even if that human is trying to harm me!”

  So that was it. They were finished. Chainsaw would die, and Madison would be sent back to her aunt to live in Brazil, never again allowed to fix anything.

  “Fix,” she murmured. “Chainsaw, I have an idea.”

  Pratt started up the escalator. His gun was overkill since Chainsaw could not directly harm him any more than any other robot could. But it made him feel better just having the gun ready. Besides, it would scare that lying little brat.

  He knew her father had been a lousy robo-lover. That was why he checked Brown’s place first, thinking Chainsaw would go there for help. He’d been right, too, and Billy Pratt always got his bot one way or the other.

  Even with his night vision goggles, it was hard for Pratt to see. He’d even shot at an old mannequin, thinking it was Chainsaw trying to sneak up on him. But it had only exploded into plastic shards.

  Still he needed to be careful. Pratt didn’t like the girl, but he didn’t want to hurt her. The girl’s aunt had money, the kind of money that could give him trouble if he harmed her. Reaching the top of the escalator, he raised his gun and stopped himself.

  There was another mannequin standing in front of him.

  Pratt smiled. It was a clever idea to make him waste ammo, but he was too steady for that. He lifted a foot, and suddenly, the stairs moved.

  It took Madison a minute to find the relay junction box on the side of the escalator. It was a good thing she’d brought her father’s tools along. Chainsaw acted as her eyes in the darkness of the old store, but she’d need to work very fast.

  There was no way for them to find the main circuit breaker for the building in time, but Madison knew they didn’t need to. All they had to do was get the power to the escalator for her plan to work. Luckily, Al had left a power adaptor cord in his tool kit. All Madison had to do was run the cord from the junction box to her personal power source: Chainsaw.

  Her first plan was to make the steps move back so Pratt would fall forward. Then Chainsaw would pin him while Madison tied his hands with the electrical tape from her father’s tool kit. But she had hit the toggle the wrong way. When Pratt moved and Madison connected Chainsaw’s power, the escalator moved upward, sending Pratt tumbling down the metal stairs.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped.

  They dashed down the steps, Chainsaw carrying her because of her ankle. The robot set her down, and she limped over to Pratt. Madison touched his neck and felt a pulse. He was alive but out cold.

  While she used Pratt’s phone to call the police, Chainsaw tied him up with the electrical tape and dragged him into an old dressing room for the police to find.

  It was six a.m. when they found the conductor, right where the cyber-soul had said she would be. Madison was not sure what to expect, but the woman had a kind face. “So you’re Chainsaw,” she said.

  “I think,” the robot said. “I would like a new name.”

  “Well, you can come up with one on the trip south,” the conductor said and opened the back of her truck. Six other robots were in the back, waiting. “I’m going to load up some cargo from a friend. These guys will hide behind the crates until we get where we’re going.”

  “I want to go, too,” Madison said.

  “Sorry,” the conductor said. “I can’t take humans, let alone human kids.”

  “But I can fix them,” Madison said. “My dad taught me how to do it.”

  The conductor looked at her. “You’re Al Brown’s daughter, right?”

  Madison nodded. “Well,” the conductor said. “I guess it would be a waste of talent to leave you behind. Come on, you can ride up front with me.”

  Madison hopped to the front of the truck, favoring her ankle. The conductor started the truck. Madison sat back and dozed as they drove south. She thought ‘Al’ might be a nice name for Chainsaw, so he could be a living tribute to her father.

  Suddenly, Madison realized had just thought of Chainsaw as “he” and not “it.” She smiled, thinking that was something else her father would have to be proud of her for. Madison had a new name for herself, too. Well, not a new name. Her father had given it to her years before: Robot Repair Girl.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Josh Pritchett is from Charlottesville, Virginia. He credits his mom for his love of science fiction since she introduced him to Star Trek, the works of Bradbury and Poe, and took him to see Star Wars three times. He has previously published in the anthologies Bizarre Tales from the Three-Notch’d Road and Bones III. He also draws, makes an awesome hamburger, and studies Klingon.

  THOUGHTS ON BRAVE NEW GIRLS

  “I wanted to write something that would encourage young women like my niece to go into science, but more than that, I wanted say something about being brave and standing up for those who are different from yourself. Never give up, even when the odds are against you.”

  Illustration for “Robot Repair Girl” by Josh Pritchett

  THE HIVE

  by Kate Lansing

  Sometimes, I think I have more in common with honeybees than with people. They bumble around their hives, gentle souls unless provoked, completely naïve to the fact that they’re a small part of something much bigger. Which is why I’ve made it my duty to protect them.

  I tug my woven ski mask low so only my eyes and mouth are visible, making sure every strand of hair is tucked into the collar of my black sweater. My mom says my hair is the color of a sunset, but it’s really more like the orange rust that flakes off the steel statues outside the Hive, a dead giveaway for anyone who knows me.

  From my crouched position in the ceiling air vent, I watch a security guard pass below. The stark white of his uniform blends in with the squeaky-clean floor and spotless walls. When his footsteps fade away, I pull a screwdriver from the utility belt s
nug at my waist and work my way around each corner of the screen.

  “All clear,” I whisper into my mouthpiece.

  Vienna responds instantly, her voice low and husky. “Get on with it, Fi. We don’t have much time.”

  I heed her advice, dropping to the floor and sprinting down the hallway, the soles of my shoes cushioned to muffle my footsteps.

  The layout of the Hive is similar to that of a beehive, individual cells for each of the working parts of the Senate. I’m familiar with this particular cell, having studied here as a research assistant for the past four years.

  Sweat beads on my forehead, itchy beneath the ski mask, as I reach Supersedure. I scan my security badge and slip inside.

  Moonlight streams through the windows, casting an eerie glow over the vast laboratory. Sleek monitors, fridges full of sham honeybee cures, and metal shelves stocked with high-tech equipment line the perimeter. Long tables intersect the room, and directly to my right, netted veils and protective garments adorn the entrance to the Apiary.

  Fleetingly, I wish I could check on the honeybees, feel them buzz, unassuming, around me, but that’s not what I came for. Instead, I hurry to a computer obscured by shadows, praying it boots up quickly. It’s so quiet that every shaky breath I take rattles in my ears.

  The login screen flashes in front of me. “Okay. Go,” I say to Vienna, my fingers hovering over the virtual keyboard.

  “Username KCruz. Password Clover5117821,” she answers breathlessly. In addition to standard security procedures, Dr. Kirk Cruz, Director of the Hive, rotates his password every fifteen minutes, although that’s not enough to keep us out.

  “I’m in.” I open his email and sift through the hidden folders until I find one titled CGDI, short for Colony Ghost Disorder Initiative. I unclip the tosser from my utility belt and tap a series of commands on the touch screen. After connecting it to the network, I kick off the data transfer. “Files are copying now.”

  “Confirmed. T minus three minutes.”

  Three minutes may not seem like that long, but time is relative. Sitting in the dark, muscles tense for any sign of motion—each second stretches to an eternity.

  I bounce my legs up and down and glance furtively over my shoulder. Were those footsteps I heard in the hallway? No, it’s just the hum of the ventilation system. Only one minute left.

  Then, suddenly, the door behind me opens, and the florescent lights flip on. Someone is in Supersedure with me.

  I dive under the counter, wheeling the chair closer for cover, and hiss into my mouthpiece, “Houston, we have a problem.”

  “Bollocks. I’ll see if I can speed it up,” Vienna says, and I hear a clicking sound in the background so distinct, I can picture her in her fingerless gloves, frantically typing at her relic of a keyboard. “And don’t call me Houston.”

  I chance a peek at the new arrival, a tall and gangly boy with sandy hair that falls over his ears. He’s wearing sneakers with frayed jeans and a plain T-shirt instead of his lab coat, but I’d know him anywhere. Wyatt Cruz, my fellow research assistant, is the Director’s son.

  He stares wide-eyed at the bright monitor and then lowers his gaze to me, hunched beneath the counter.

  I freeze, absently touching my face, comforted by the woven knit. My anonymity is intact. Vienna’s voice brings me back. “We’ve got what we need. Get out of there, Fi.”

  In one smooth motion, I clip the tosser to my utility belt and somersault out from under the counter.

  “What are you doing in here?” Wyatt demands, crossing his arms over his chest and blocking the door.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” I cock my head to the side and smirk beneath my mask. I have the advantage, and luckily, there’s another way out.

  Without waiting for his response, I make a mad dash for the Apiary, charging through the entrance just as Wyatt realizes what I’m doing.

  “Wait! Get back here!” he shouts, chasing after me.

  I weave through the rows of wooden crates that house the honeybee colonies as best I can. It’s pitch-black apart from the stars twinkling through the skylights. The faint buzz of bees dancing in the humidity is punctuated by Wyatt’s footsteps right behind me. He’s faster than I thought.

  “Update, please,” Vienna says, anxious.

  “Working on it,” I manage to reply, picking up my pace.

  I pump my arms and lengthen my stride, but it’s no use. Wyatt’s legs are longer than mine are, and he doesn’t seem to be tiring. He veers to the left and cuts me off in front of a large window that opens into the greenhouse, one story below.

  I skid to a stop before colliding with him. We stare at each other, at a standstill, our chests rising and falling.

  “Who are you? What do you want with my father?” Wyatt’s voice is angry but also, unexpectedly, curious.

  “You really are clueless, aren’t you?” I snap, trying to goad him.

  Understanding flashes across his face. “You’re the one who’s been nicking lab equipment. You’re the Phantom.” I must admit I’m rather proud of that nickname. He relaxes, his lips twitching. “You’re not as good as I thought you’d be.”

  “Yeah, well, you haven’t caught me yet.” I feign to the left and then sprint right, diving headfirst through the open window. I land with a somersault, smacking my knee hard against the tiled floor. The pain makes me dizzy as I struggle to my feet and limp away at a slow jog. At least I lost Wyatt.

  But then I hear a crash behind me. He’s pulled the same move but landed on a table loaded with trays of flower blossoms. The scents of soil and greenery reach my nose. I curse under my breath and, ignoring the pain in my leg, hobble as fast as I can for the exit.

  I fumble for the handle, push open the door, and take one step into the cool evening air when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  Swaying on my feet, I spin around and jab at Wyatt. He ducks and knocks me flat on my back, pinning me to the ground. I bite my lip to keep from crying out in pain. My knee’s smarting, but Wyatt didn’t walk away from our tumble unscathed, either. There are scratches on his bare forearm and a deep gash on one cheek.

  “Time to see who the mysterious Phantom is,” Wyatt says.

  I squirm beneath his hold and feel a jolt of fear as he snatches off my mask.

  He gasps in surprise and scrambles to his feet. “Fi? No, it can’t be… it makes no sense,” he stammers. “Why?”

  In the moonlight, his eyes are golden like honey. Maybe that’s why I decide to trust him.

  I prop myself up on my elbows. “Wyatt, there are things you don’t know about your father. About what we’re really doing at the Hive. Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  What was I thinking trusting Wyatt? He could destroy everything Vienna and I have worked for, not to mention what could happen to my mom. If only I could warn her, somehow get a message to her, but she’s at work, waxing the Senate Chamber floor. And I don’t dare go back to the Hive tonight.

  I cut a glance at Wyatt, who is jogging almost lazily next to me as our feet pad softly against cracked concrete. His eyebrows are furrowed in consternation. When his sandy hair catches the moonlight, it has the same honey undertones as his eyes; it’s not a bad look on him.

  “Sorry about your leg,” Wyatt says, still staring straight ahead. “Does it hurt?”

  “Nah, it’s fine.” But I wince as we turn down Fifteenth Street.

  “So where are we going? Your secret lair?”

  “Georgetown. And it’s hardly a lair.”

  We move in the shadows of decaying buildings and cherry tree sculptures. The real trees died off years ago, along with their blossoms, replaced by harsh steel statues, nothing but a façade.

  “Almost there,” I say, darting into a back alley
behind a decrepit warehouse. I flip open a keypad by the loading dock and punch in the six-digit code: 1-1-2-3-5-8.

  “Fibonacci?” Wyatt asks in a reverent tone.

  His eyes flit to the tattoo on the back of my neck, barely visible below my ponytail. It’s the Greek symbol for Phi, the Golden Ratio, existing everywhere in nature, including the family tree of honeybees. It also happens to be my namesake.

  “Of course.” The loading dock door rumbles open, revealing an interior that contrasts with the shoddy exterior of the building: tidy, cared for, and with a few modern touches.

  I hop inside, favoring my injured leg, followed closely by Wyatt. A plush wool rug covers the floor of the warehouse, giving the place a cozy feel. Cases of supplies, nonperishable food, water, and first-aid kits are stacked in the corner. My makeshift lab is off to the side, a rickety table that can barely hold the mini fridge, microscope and mounts, and basic chemical compounds balanced precariously on it.

  All swagger, Vienna comes out from behind her desk, hidden from view behind three huge side-by-side monitors. With her dark skin, bushy black hair, and stocky stature, we’re polar opposites.

  “About time. I was getting worr—” She stops, taking in Wyatt’s presence. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Wait, don’t I know you?” Wyatt asks, squinting at Vienna.

  “You wish, puppy dog.”

  I roll my eyes, nodding to each of them in turn. “Vienna, Wyatt. Wyatt, Vienna.”

  “Oh, I remember you now. You were in the program with us, but you—uh—flunked out, right?”

  “Shows what you know.” Vienna clicks her tongue and shifts from one combat-boot-clad foot to the other. “I’ve waited too long for this, Fi. I want to get started.”

  “This’ll just take a sec. Wyatt’s got some good moves, plus access to a higher security clearance than I do. He could be a valuable asset.”