Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “We brought in a temp. Come along. We mustn’t put this off again.“

  Jannine was scared. A temp was serious business, expensive.

  Reluctantly, she followed the exec out of the alert room. They passed through sound effects and bright electronic lights. Jannine’s co-workers played the games, proving they were fit to do their jobs for one more day.

  Nearly late, Neko hurried toward her favorite alert console. She saw Jannine and the exec. She stopped, startled, looking as scared as Jannine felt. Behind the exec, out of his sight, Jannine shrugged elaborately and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. She tried to communicate: No big deal, see you later. She wished she could make herself believe it. Her hands felt cold and her stomach was upset.

  The exec’s i.d. opened a door that Jannine had never been through, that she’d never seen anyone use. The exec entered the elevator.

  “Come on,“ he said, smiling again. “Everything okay?“

  “Where are we going?“

  He pointed upward. That was no help. The building was twenty stories high. Jannine had never been above the production level.

  She entered the elevator. The doors closed behind her. She stood there, waiting, looking at the exec. She didn’t know what else to do. The upward motion made her feel even queasier. Her ears popped. The elevator stopped. The doors opened behind her.

  “Here we are.“ The exec gestured for her to turn and precede him out.

  He took her down a carpeted hall. She hardly noticed her surroundings. Photos hung on the wall. Fields and forests, she guessed, but out of focus, weird pastel colors. Some upper class fad.

  The exec opened another door.

  A dozen people sat at blank computer terminals, waiting. One machine remained free.

  “Right there,“ the exec said. “Get settled, and we can start.“

  Jannine didn’t recognize anyone in the room.

  Everyone else is new, she thought. They’re applying to work on the substrate, and there’s a new test to get the job. What did I do to make them think I should have to take it? Somebody must have noticed something. Now I’m screwed.

  The job test she’d taken a few months ago was all physical. It was still hard to believe she’d found such a job, with such a test. She hadn’t known how to figure out a safe middle score, so she’d come out near the top of the group. She had always been athletic. Not enough to go pro. She’d tried that, and failed.

  She approached the computer terminal warily. She stared at it, disheartened. Its only interface was a keyboard.

  “I don’t type,“ she said. She spoke louder than she meant to, startling several of the others, startling herself. A nervous laugh tittered through the room. Jannine turned toward the exec. “I told them, when I applied, that I don’t type!“

  “ “That’s all right,“ he said. “You won’t need to. Just tee or eff.“

  She sat down. She began to shiver, distress and dismay taking over her body with a deep, clenching quiver.

  The chair was hard, unyielding, uncomfortable. Jannine wished for her reclining couch, for the familiar grip, the helmet and collar and imaginary reality.

  The screen blinked on. She flinched. She ground her teeth, fighting tears of rage and frustration. Her throat ached and her eyes stung.

  “Any questions about the instructions?“ the exec asked.

  No one spoke.

  “You may begin.“

  The screen dissolved and reformed.

  I should have been looking for another job a month ago, Jannine thought angrily, desperately. I knew it, and I didn’t do it. What a fool.

  She stared at the keyboard. It blurred before her. She blinked furiously.

  “Just tee or eff.“ One of those. She searched out the T, and the F. She pressed the T. On the screen, the blinking cursor moved downward, leaving a mark behind.

  She pressed the T twice more, then varied the pattern, tentatively, with the F. The blinking light reached the bottom of the screen and stayed there. The patch of writing behind it jumped upward, bringing a new blank box beneath the blinking square. She pressed the keys, faster and faster, playing a two-note dirge. Her hands shook.

  She touched the wrong key. Nothing happened. The system didn’t warn her, didn’t set her down as it would on the substrate, made no noise, made no mark. Jannine put one forefinger on the T and the other on the F and played them back and forth. All she wanted to do was finish and go back to work. If they’d let her.

  The screen froze. Jannine tried to scroll farther down. Nothing happened.

  She shot a quick glance at the exec, wondering how soon he would find out she’d crashed his system.

  He was already looking at her. Jannine turned away, pretending she’d never raised her head, pretending their gazes had never met.

  But she’d seen him stand up. She’d seen his baffled expression.

  Paralyzed at the terminal, she waited for him to find her out.

  “Are you all right?“

  “Yes,“ she said.

  “You finished very quickly,“ he said.

  She glanced up sharply. Finished?

  The test ought to go on and on till the time ran out, like a game, like the alert, games you couldn’t win. You were supposed to rack up higher and higher scores, you were supposed to pretend it was fun, but you were judged every time against the highest score you’d ever made.

  The screen had stopped because she’d reached the end of the test.

  The end.

  Amazing.

  The exec looked at the screen over her shoulder, reached down, pressed a key. The screen blinked and reformed. Jannine recognized the pattern of the beginning of the test, and she thought, Oh, god, no, not another one.

  “You’re allowed to go through and check your answers,“ the exec said. “Plenty of time before the next section. Don’t you want to do that?“

  One of the other test-takers, still working through the questions, made a sharp “Shh!“ sound, but never looked up.

  “No,“ Jannine said. “I’m done. I don’t want to go through it again. Can I leave now?“

  “I really think you should work on this some more. It’s for your own good.“

  “I don’t want to!“ Jannine shouted. “Don’t you understand me?“

  “Hey.“ The test-taker who’d shhed her sat up, glared, saw the exec, shut up, and hunched down over the test.

  The others continued to work, without a glance at Jannine or at the exec.

  “I understand what you’re saying,“ the exec said. “I don’t understand why. You do fine on the alert, so it isn’t test anxiety, but your score on this is terrible.“

  Jannine felt spied on. He’d been watching her answers as she chose them.

  Angrily, she rose. She was taller than the exec, and bigger.

  “I’ll tell you why,“ she said. “Why is because I don’t want to take your stupid test.“ She knew he was about to tell her she’d failed, she couldn’t work here anymore, she was fired. “I quit!“

  She pushed past him, heading for the door. She was halfway down the hall before he recovered from the shock and came after her. She’d hoped he’d just write her off, let her go and be done with her. She hoped he’d spare her more humiliation.

  “Wait!“

  He was mad, now, too, and wanting to take it out on her. She could hear it in his voice.

  “You’re a valuable employee,“ he said. “We think you have a lot of potential.“

  He baffled her. “Can I go back to work?“

  “What’s wrong with you?“ His voice rose. “What do you have against being promoted?“

  So that was what this was all about. A management test. Not a test to keep working on the substrate.

  “Who asked you?“ she said, furious. “Who asked you to promote me?“

  He stopped short, confused.

  “You can take the test again.“

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?“

  “Will you talk to me
about this?“ The exec rocked back on his heels and folded his arms and looked at her. “Do you... do you need help with something?“

  Jannine hated the pity in his face, the pity that would turn to contempt.

  “I quit! I said I quit and I mean I quit!“ She fled into the elevator. When the doors closed, she was shaking.

  The elevator halted at the production level. The doors opened. Instead of the quiet, cold workspace, each person in a couch, no noise but the pumps and the high-pitched hum of the electric fields, Jannine walked into midmorning break. Everybody milled around, drinking coffee and eating junk food, stretching and moving.

  She crossed the floor without stopping. She hoped no one would notice where she’d been, or notice she was leaving. The best she could hope for now was to get away clean.

  “Jannine!“

  Jannine’s shoulders slumped. If she’d just disappeared, she never would’ve had to tell Neko what had happened. But she couldn’t keep walking, not when Neko called to her.

  “Where have you been? Where are you going?“ Neko hurried to her side. “Are you okay? Was it the alert? You never fail the alert! How late did you stay out this morning, anyway?“ She grinned. “I’m sorry I was so grumpy. Are you done with counseling? Can you come back to work?“ She lowered her voice, whispering, confidential. “The temp is really good. I think he wants to work here. Permanently. He’s even got his own equipment. Are you in trouble?“

  Jannine wanted to explain, but she had no idea how. She wanted desperately to get out of here.

  “I quit,“ she said.

  “You — what?“ Neko stared at her, stricken, then awed. “You quit! Because of what I said? Is that why you had to go to counseling? How did they find out? Jannine...Oh, you’re so brave!“

  “Brave?“ Jannine said, baffled.

  “I ought to walk right out the door with you!“

  “No,“ Jannine said. “No, you shouldn’t, that’d be dumb.“ Neko thought she was leaving because of the company’s products. That was okay, because Jannine couldn’t explain why she’d quit. It was too complicated and too embarrassing. But she couldn’t let Neko quit, too. Not if she was going to quit because of what she thought they might be building. Not if she was going to quit to be in solidarity with Jannine. That would make everything, even their friendship, a lie.

  “Do you mean it?“ Neko said. “That’s such a relief! You won’t be mad? Did they know I — ? I can’t quit, Jannine, I’m awfully sorry. I can’t afford it, I need this job...“

  Jannine felt betrayed. That made no sense. She didn’t want Neko to quit. Hell, she didn’t want to quit, herself. She would’ve felt awful, she would’ve felt guilty, if Neko had tried to leave with her, and she would’ve tried to talk her out of going. No: she would have talked her out of going, no matter what she had to tell her. No matter how much she had to tell her.

  The lights blinked: end of break. Everyone had to get back to work. The temp would be in Jannine’s couch.

  “It doesn’t matter,“ Jannine said. “I have to leave.“

  “I’ll walk you to the door.“

  “Why?“ No one was supposed to leave the floor during work hours. “You’ll be late. You’ll lose points.“

  “I don’t care!“

  At the checkout, the barrier gave Jannine her i.d. It refused to hand over Neko’s. Neko hesitated. She could come through the barrier. But she’d have a hard time getting back to the floor: security, explanations, maybe even counseling. A lot of lost points.

  “It doesn’t matter,“ Jannine said, disappointed despite herself. “Stay here.“

  “Well... okay, if you’re sure...“

  Jannine went through the barrier. It closed again behind her.

  “We’ll get together,“ Neko said. “For a drink. Sometime. Okay?“

  Without turning back, Jannine raised her hand in a final wave.

  The exit opened. She walked out onto the rain-wet street, into the darkness.

  oOo

  Vonda N. McIntyre...

  ...writes science fiction. You can find a bio for her (which contains few facts but much truth) by Eileen Gunn at http://vondanmcintyre.com/Bio-by-EileenGunn.html.

  A Mighty Fortress

  Brenda W. Clough

  His cell was exactly ten paces in each direction. If you could call it a cell: the force-field walls were clear, nearly invisible except when the distant primary Caruso heaved above the horizon to gild the curve above his head. At this latitude Friday, the lesser sun, never rose into view. He might be utterly at liberty, lord of illimitable space, standing on the high place and surveying Ugolino, his planet and kingdom. But then he returned to his pacing again.

  He lacked only some way of keeping count of his pacing. With subtlest cruelty his captors had denied him writing implements. A Catholic would use a rosary. He had seen a rosary once, clenched in an old woman’s hand. The woman must have been old — he remembered the dirt engraved in the wrinkles of the knuckles, and the black crescents under the broken nails — but her face had been invisible, hidden under the other corpses.

  Again he took control of his straying thoughts. He stepped out with resolution, raising his voice in song: “For all the saints, who from their labors rest! Who thee, by faith, before the world confessed... .“ The old hymns of his boyhood, verse after ingrained verse in eight or ten or thirteen beat lines, were as good as any abacus. The futile prowlings of a caged beast were transmuted to worship in the eyes of his viewers. Besides, he knew he had a tin ear. Being forced to listen to him sing the same antique songs, day after day after tuneless day, must be torture for his captors.

  It was one of the first rules of generalship: always keep the troops busy. Now, with the body safely occupied with pacing, and the resonant songs to distract the spies, his mind could work. At every tenth step he could look down over the edge, a thousand meters to where the atmosphere thickened into breathable pinkish soup. Still poisonous of course, at 20% methane.

  That was the cunning of his prison. If by strength or wit he should breach the energy wall, he’d suffocate in the gossamer atmosphere as he plunged down the vertical cliff to his death. Should he survive the climb down to the surface, he could breathe methane. And if by chance the supply buggy was nearby on its automated round, it was no refuge. He had observed the buggy closely over the past months. What else was there to watch? He had noted its route as it slowly trundled along, foreshortening, and then too close to see as it came up to the base of his mesa, and then slowly retreating on its fixed course. The vehicle was nothing but wheels and the hoist machinery. The cargoes on the open bed were sorted onto individual pallets and sealed against the ammonia sleet. For a long time there had been ten pallets, then eight, and six, and now only three. Somewhere on this hellish planet there were others like himself.

  They must be weak, and the difficulties were insuperable to the weak. But he was strong. Not only in himself, but in friends. Supporters and partisans had died defending him; after his capture, petitions and hunger strikes had been organized to force his release. At last it had come, as it always must, to force. The army would liberate him: soon, soon. Unless he could escape first. That would be politically preferable — to lead his troops in triumph through the defeated capital, rather than to be rescued passively like Sleeping Beauty from her tower.

  But Wors was reliable. Closer than any brother — certainly of better faith than that snake Lidi. Wors had laid contingency plans, spider-webs of fine complexity. But he knew his part well, because Wors had repeated it often. “They will not, they cannot deny a prisoner the consolations of religion,“ Wors had insisted. “When you receive something, my general, with the Easter lily on it — a medal, a card, a tract — then be ready. Watch for rescue!“

  “I shall rise again, and they shall not know me,“ he had replied, deadpan. The entire meeting — it had been the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as hard a crew as any Supreme Leader could wish for — they had laughed and laughed, clapping each other
on the back and slapping their knees in mirth. God, those had been good times. Nobody had believed then that things could come to this.

  For a moment he was in the here-and-now again, pacing his eyrie prison. But he focused, lifting his voice in song again: “O Zion haste, thy mission high fulfilling... .“ Then he turned his thoughts to how rescue must come.

  All he needed was a pressure suit. In the suit he could brave the hydromethane atmosphere. He could descend to ground level by clinging to the hoist cable. It ran over a simple pulley recessed into the cliff top. It might even be that his weight alone would suffice to lower him down. If not he could descend hand over hand. He’d have to time this break carefully. Just as the supply buggy neared the base of the mesa: that was the moment. The spy cameras and sound pick-ups were high above his reach beyond the struts that supported the field generator. But the signal took ten minutes to get to enemy headquarters. Ten more minutes for a signal to come back, and perhaps five good minutes in between of the inevitable hysteria and indecision that was typical of the enemy’s lower echelons. He’d have twenty-five minutes to swarm down the cable and override the buggy’s programming. He would drive west to the prison base, the only settlement on Ugolino, gambling on reaching it before the air reservoirs in his suit ran out. And there he would commandeer a ship, and return to Prospero in triumph.