Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  When he said that I must have squeezed her because she stopped sucking and opened her eyes. I know newborns aren’t supposed to focus, but she saw me. I could feel it. And I saw her eyes as well.

  They reckon you can’t guess the color this soon either, but I know. They’re a bit muddy yet, but underneath it’ll be a deep, filtered-coffee brown, and when she’s older, they’ll pick up that little shimmer from the mica-silt. The color of the waterhole, when the through-stream’s still running, after a really big flood.

  I nodded at the doctor and said, “Yeah. Maybe she will.“

  oOo

  Sylvia Kelso...

  ...lives in North Queensland, Australia and was telling stories almost before she could write. Her poetry has appeared in North Queensland and Australian Women’s Poetry anthologies. Her short stories have appeared in Antipodes: North American Journal of Australian Literature, Neverlands and Otherwheres (from Susurrus Press), and New Ceres Nights, (from Twelfth Planet Press), and two of her novels, The Moving Water and Amberlight, have been finalists for best fantasy novel in the Australian Aurealis genre fiction awards.

  Ask Arlen

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Plummeting through the pre-dawn sky, all Qtzl could think of was that his family would never know what had happened to him. He would burn his epitaph across an alien sky alone, while the only eyes that would see him — alien eyes — would mark him as a meteor.

  It didn’t happen quite that way. He managed to by-pass his malfunctioning navigational array, regain control of the craft before it began to disintegrate in the atmosphere of the planet, and fire up his braking field. It made his descent more spectacular, but slowed the Ship. He downed it in a labyrinthine maze of mountains and sat quaking, but alive, wondering what he ought to do next.

  “Qtzl,“ Ship said. “You are alive.“

  “Indeed. Thank you.“

  “Your vital signs are quite strong, though your respiration is a bit elevated. May I recommend that we attempt communication with any nearby comrades?“

  “Do that.“ Qtzl glanced around, discomfited by the sound of hissing from somewhere to the stern of the small craft.

  “Communication impossible. Order disregarded.“

  Qtzl brought his eyes back to the spherical console display. “Impossible? Why did you recommend we attempt it, then?“

  “Protocol,“ Ship said, and managed to sound reproachful. “May I recommend that you get out and reconnoiter?“

  “No, thank you. I’d rather not find out, for the sake of protocol, that reconnoitering is as impossible as communication.“

  “The planet’s atmosphere is breathable,“ Ship informed him, reproach thickening. “I repeat: I recommend that you get out and reconnoiter.“

  Qtzl did that, if for no other reason than that the continued hissing from astern made him nervous. Outside, he could see that the damage was severe. The bow planes used for atmospheric maneuvering were sheared off and the landing cradle had failed, dumping the craft onto its braking-field generator. The communications array was smashed beyond recognition and steam oozed from a seam behind the cabin.

  “Damage report,“ he ordered, trying to sound authoritative rather than frightened. “Source of steam.“

  “Environment controls disabled... coolant chamber breached.“

  Qtzl took a step backwards. “Are you likely to explode?“

  “Likely? That is a judgment call. Likelihood of explosion, twenty to one against.“

  “Possibility of repair?“

  “Repair necessary to continued functioning.“

  Qtzl tried to swallow around the dry patch in his throat. “No, no. I mean, what’s the possibility that I could repair you?“

  “You installed my navigational array,“ Ship said.

  Qtzl colored all the way to the tip of his crest. “Point taken,“ he said and trudged off in search of shelter, cursing his mechanical ineptitude. This was like a grade-B ixltl — foolhardy adolescent stranded alone on an alien and possibly hostile world, no way of contacting his loved ones. Alone against —

  “Ship, life form readings, please.“

  “You are surrounded by an abundance of small life forms, Qtzl.“

  “How small?“

  “Very small. The largest is approximately eight ixiqs long and four ixiqs in height.“

  “Intelligent?“

  “Intelligence is a relative concept. Could you be more specific?“

  “Are they people?“

  “No people are present.“

  Qtzl sighed, ruffling his neck frill. Someday perhaps Ship consoles would be less dogmatic. “I need shelter. Could you — I mean, please locate shelter.“

  Ship was silent for a moment, then said, “There is an artificial structure 100 itixiqs to the east.“

  Qtzl’s blood froze. “Artificial?“

  “A domicile. It is vacant... presently.“

  Qtzl was both excited and fearful as he approached the domicile. It was perched near the top of a wooded slope, hemmed in by what he assumed were trees; only the second story’s high, peaked roof nudged above the many branches.

  He entered through a door screened by flowering plant life. The building was, as Ship had said, vacant, but not empty. It was full of furnishings — some comfortingly and eerily familiar, others whose uses Qtzl could only guess.

  He was at once unnerved and delighted. A person lived here! An alien person whose dimensions were not unlike his own. He wondered how soon the alien would return. He opened his mouth to ask Ship, but realized Ship would only say — with impossible condescension — that it was not omniscient. That fact bothered Qtzl deeply just now.

  His senses told him that no food had recently been prepared here and there was a fine layer of dust on the furnishings which spoke of disuse. Perhaps this was someone’s sabbatical refuge. His explorations revealed much of interest. There were but two small sleep chambers (or so he took them to be) with one padded pallet apiece. Both were flat; Qtzl couldn’t imagine sleeping on them. He was boggled by the number of belongings this alien had accrued.

  He was also boggled by what he took to be representations of the planet’s natives. Although there were images of a number of fur-bearing animals — chiefly hanging within frames on the walls — by far the preponderance of pictures were of a bipedal, bilaterally symmetrical being that wore fur only on or around its head and which possessed two eyes, a small mouth, and a pointy, erect nose. They were neither terrifyingly ugly nor mesmerizingly beautiful, despite what the popular media suggested to the contrary. But they were undeniably alien. Except for the eyes, Qtzl found the faces mystifying; without a neck frill and crest, how could he ever hope to read their emotions? Creator willing, he would never have to try.

  During his meal of synthesized rations, Ship informed him that it had been doing some calculations. “Repair is possible,“ it told him, and proceeded to rattle off a list of necessary materials. “Needed metals, minerals, and chemical compounds are present in this planet’s mantle. They are also present in the artifacts found in this domicile, which indicates that the natives mine and refine them. This society would appear to be fairly advanced in metallurgy and chemistry. It should not be impossible to affect my repair.“

  “Will I be able to do it?“

  “I will offer instruction and guidance,“ said Ship, and Qtzl imagined smugness in the tone.

  “How do I go about obtaining the materials?“

  “I have no idea.“

  oOo

  Kerwin Frees was a UFO chaser. He was a card-carrying member of MUFON. He was also a card-carrying member of CSICOP (which he referred to lovingly as “the psy-cops“), and saw no contradiction in the dual membership. He was both skeptic and true-believer but, at the moment, the true-believer was dominant, for Kerwin Frees had just seen a UFO land in the deep, piney woods beyond the south shore of Lake Tahoe.

  He had not been chasing UFOs when he witnessed the long trail of light arcing from the heav
ens. He had been lying on the hood of his Saturn star-gazing, drowning his senses in the immensity of the universe and a beer, figuring that next month when the tourists and fair-weather Tahoe-ites began to arrive, he would go to Montana where there’d been a rash of sightings.

  He was immediately galvanized, beer forgotten. He had just enough time to lift his field glasses and track the fiery object’s fall. Most people would have taken it for a meteor. Kerwin Frees did not make that mistake. The trajectory was all wrong, suggesting at least a partially controlled descent; its trail flattened out before disappearing behind a wooded ridge. It was not a jet — no jet had ever plummeted from that distance. It was not a space shuttle — he knew this because he had the shuttle schedule (hacked out of a NASA computer) memorized.

  Kerwin Frees poured out the remains of his beer, tossed the can into the recycle bin in his trunk, and shut himself into his car with his CB radio.

  oOo

  Qtzl slept curled in a large cup-shaped chair. He did not sleep easily or well, and was up before day-break exploring his borrowed lodgings and pondering his predicament. He had the Ship’s Field Remote Unit scan the foodstuffs in the alien’s larder, and while it was thus occupied, he found what looked vaguely like a computer in a cozy, cluttered chamber. The FRU confirmed the find. It was a computer of sorts, and was connected to some sort of network. Munching on some dry, crumbly white squares Ship had deemed edible, Qtzl watched the FRU put the alien artifact through its paces.

  “The machine incorporates no intelligence,“ Ship told him after exciting the boxy alien unit into a series of bleeps and chitters. “It models reality in simple binary languages which are relatively nimble, but not exceptionally powerful... .The network to which it is connected,“ Ship added after a pause, “is, however, rather extensive. If you will allow me the time, Qtzl, I can explore the pathways. Perhaps I can determine a means of procuring the materials necessary for the repair of my transport module.“

  Qtzl allowed the time, using it to his own purposes. Sometime in the middle of a fitful nap, he wakened to Ship’s strident desire to share its findings.

  “This society functions on a free market system not unlike our own. I have located sources for the materials you need, and can arrange to have them delivered to this place.“

  “How?“

  “Quite simply by placing orders into the computers of the various sellers. I already have experimented with such a tactic. The computers, lacking intelligence, do not question my addition of spurious orders.“

  “But ... how will we pay for it?“

  “We have nothing with which to pay for it,“ said Ship patiently.

  “But that’s stealing,“ Qtzl objected. “I won’t steal.“

  “Then you will not get home.“

  “Stealing is reprehensible.“

  “We seem to have a moral dilemma.“

  Qtzl rolled his neck frill and waved his arms in a gesture he hoped looked more impassioned that frantic. “Options! I need options.“

  “If you had some sort of legal tender, you could purchase the materials, and I could then place the orders legitimately.“

  “Good! What tender?“

  “Apparently, this society functions with a multi-leveled equivalency system. Precious metals are the actual units of value; however, one does not use them directly in bartering.“

  Qtzl’s momentary relief flagged. “You mean, I can’t just go dig up some ores and do business?“

  “Apparently not. The second tier of exchange involves chits called ‘currency’ which occur in a multitude of denominations and which are symbolic of the actual units of value. There is then a third level of exchange called ‘credit’ which exists solely as electronic information and which is symbolic, in its turn, of the currency. As nearly as I am able to determine, most business is conducted without any physical exchange of real property. All transactions are controlled by computers... which makes their lack of sophistication beneficial,“ it added after a moment.

  Qtzl pondered this, then decided it behooved him to ask, “In order to purchase our materials, what must I have?“

  “You must have an accumulation of this symbolic data in an institution known as a ‘bank.’“

  There was no Tlvian equivalent for the word, so Ship simply said it in the language of the builders of the network. “Bank.“ It was a perfectly ugly word, Qtzl thought, sounding approximately like someone choking on vetshmil.

  “And how,“ he asked, “does one acquire these symbolic units of value?“

  “One works. When one works, one’s employer deposits these symbolic units of value into the aforementioned ‘bank.’ The problem, of course, is that each employed individual is known to the system by a unique code which includes a name and a number.“

  Qtzl had not thought it possible for Ship to sound perplexed or uncertain. He revised that estimation now, and was not happy about it.

  oOo

  Meteorite. That was what the police, the late night news, and the next morning’s newspaper labeled it. The only people who suspected it was anything else were fringers — crazies that used citizen band and the Web alike to report everything from abductions to Elvis sightings. It wasn’t long before a simple arc of light had been transmuted into a dozen or more close encounters of various kinds, including detailed (and wildly different) descriptions of the aliens.

  Kerwin Frees was an experienced hand at this. He knew how to read between the lines, how to suck an atom of truth out of many gross tons of fiction. He took careful notes of each description of the earthfall, paying special attention to where the correspondent claimed to be at the time of the sighting. With any luck, he would be able to use the information to fix the landing site.

  oOo

  “What are these?“ Qtzl asked, staring at the screenful of scribbles Ship presented to him.

  “These are job listings. People seeking employees let their needs be known by posting them on this Network. It is fascinating, Qtzl,“ Ship added, sounding almost enthusiastic. “These people are quite literate. They run the machines. The machines do not run them. Nowhere have I found a machine that is a decision-maker; they are merely implementers.“

  Qtzl was too lost in his own miseries to care about the state of machine intelligence on this alien world. “I can’t read them,“ he said glumly. “It might as well be the scratchings of zik-ziks.“

  “I can read them,“ said Ship. “What sort of job would you like?“

  “I can’t apply for any job. I can’t appear physically. After all, I hardly look like a native, do I?“

  “No, you do not. Therefore it will be necessary to obtain a position which does not require your personal attendance.“

  “Oh, certainly. And how am I to undergo the Sizing-Up without making a personal appearance?“

  “I am not certain that this society observes that ritual.“ Ship was silent for a moment, then came back with a series of job listings highlighted on the computer screen. “Here, for example, are a number of entries which simply say, ‘send résumé to’ what I assume are surface coordinates. Several even allow electronic submissions.“

  Qtzl felt a stirring of interest. “So, assuming we find a position for which I’m qualified — then we tender my attributes electronically?“

  “Precisely.“

  Qtzl ruffled his neck frill in agreement. “Then let’s find me a position that requires no personal appearances and which will pay well enough to cover the necessary purchases in a reasonable length of time.“

  Ship went to work immediately, which put it out of communication with Qtzl for an inordinate amount of time. Bored and fidgety, he resumed his exploration of the alien abode. He was afraid to go outside — even with Ship monitoring his every move — so he settled for a further tour of his absent host’s belongings. In a small adjunct to the sleep chamber, he found some interesting garments which, for lack of anything better to do, he tried on. Standing before a reflective glass, Qtzl was admiring how the color
of the robe he wore set off the turquoise of his skin when Ship beeped him. Hiking up the long skirts, he hurried into the computer room.

  “I have compiled a selection of positions for which résumés are requested and which do not rule you out by qualification,“ Ship told him. “It is a short list.“

  It was indeed a short list. A company located somewhere called Elk Grove needed something called an ‘accountant.’ When Ship explained the duties of the task, Qtzl was boggled yet again — how could anyone keep track of imaginary units of value?

  “Digits,“ Ship said (smugly, Qtzl thought), “are digits no matter where in the galaxy one goes. We will send a résumé there.“