Brave New Girls: Tales of Girls and Gadgets

by Kate Moretti

  Today, she was consumed with the burning secret in her apron pocket—a secret, which, if she wasn’t careful, could put her back in that small white room.

  Cika shifted on her shoulder. The tiny robot lizard had been responding to her suppressed excitement all day long. Without warning, he would run from one shoulder to the other or to the top of her head. Good thing he was invisible. Last year, she’d grown tired of always having to hide him—in the folds of a scarf, a deep pocket, even in her hair. It had taken her months of relentless work, but she’d finally mastered the combination of atom particles needed for him to blend into thin air.

  At the sound of a chime, she put away her knife and placed her chopping efforts in the chiller. Every day except Sunday, she wheeled a food cart up and down the halls of the hospital, delivering hot and nutritious meals to the patients.

  Today, after talking to a small girl with a broken arm about the little girl’s newest stuffed animal and listening to an older man complain that mixed vegetables should contain okra, she stopped her cart next to the bed at the far end of the row. A boy lay in it, as pale as the sheet covering him. Dark bruises stood out against the healthy skin like black-and-purple blossoms. His legs and right arm were in casts, and stitches ran across the bridge of his nose and cheek. Wires and tubes sprouted from his body like foreign antennae, attached to machines that beeped and hummed.

  She took a glass jar from beneath her cart and set it on the table beside the bed. The jar held a fistful of daisies, and she touched the yellow middle of one for courage. Turning to the boy, she slipped her hand from her apron pocket and adjusted his pillow beneath his head. The boy’s dark hair was unkempt and easily hid the neuro-transmitter she had just attached to the base of his skull.

  “Viala. What are you doing?”

  The sharp, clipped voice catapulted Viala’s heart into double-time. Cika raced up her neck and curled around her ear. A woman dressed in nurse’s whites stood in the aisle, a hand propped on her hip and a scowl on her face.

  Craters. “Oh, uh… just leaving some flowers.”

  Jaex’s eyes flashed with impatience. “As you can see, he isn’t capable of enjoying them at the moment. Leave him alone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Head down, Viala scurried back to her cart. She didn’t have to turn around to know that Jaex’s gaze was following her up the aisle. She understood why the nurse had no kind feelings for her; Jaex’s aunt had been one of the victims slaughtered by Viala’s father—or rather, his mad creations. She understood it, though it did nothing to stop her from wanting to scream loud enough for the whole starship to hear, “I’m not him!”

  Cika wiggled from his perch atop her ear. Guilt struck her. Was she really unlike her father? She’d created her own robot, hadn’t she? Except Cika wasn’t big enough to do any harm. He had no teeth, claws, or venom. And she’d created him because she was lonely, not because she was mad.

  Viala shut her bedroom door. She leaned against it for a second or two before taking a deep breath and crossing over to the far wall. It had been a happy accident when Viala discovered a weak spot in the base of her wall several years ago.

  The thin riveted metal had required only two broken nails and a screwdriver to dislodge. The cavity she’d found, a walkway between walls, had been perfect to hide her growing need to create from her mother. Over the years, using subterfuge and just plain thievery, of which she wasn’t proud, she’d set up a proper, if not cramped, lab. She’d also learned not to be scared of spiders.

  She powered up her computer, and her messy topknot on her head wobbled as Cika scrambled from it. As he scurried down her arm, she saw his toes catch at the hem of her sleeve. She pulled the stem of her watch out, clicked it twice, and then turned it one full rotation. She smiled softly as the chip inside her watch coordinated with Cika’s. Visibility rippled down the lizard’s body like water.

  In the glow of the monitor, his iridescent scales gleamed purple, blue, and green. She was still haunted by the memory of her father’s creations’ eyes: red and staring with slit pupils. She had intentionally given Cika eyes the color of the cornflowers that grew on the Skybridge and large, round, trusting pupils.

  “Hey, you. Ready to get to work?”

  He opened and closed his mouth and swished his tail. As she disconnected her own neuro-transmitter from its port, he climbed to the top of the computer and perched like a sentinel dragon on the corner. Only his sides moved, slowly in and out. He had no reason to breathe, of course, but Viala found comfort in the sight and was glad she’d programmed him to do so.

  She detached another neuro-transmitter from its port and affixed it to the back of her head. Two years of trial and error and endless nights hunched at her computer, working through code and wrestling with wires had led to the creation of the Neuro-Alternate Reality Program—NARP, for short. It was a computer system that allowed for coma victims to communicate. If it worked correctly, that was. She’d never had anyone to try it out on—until now.

  After the RL (Reality Lens) was in place over her left eye, she rolled her shoulders, blew a long breath between her lips, and said, “Initiate, NARP.”

  Everything went black. She knew from hundreds of times experiencing it not to panic. Her eyes were open, blinking, but they saw nothing. She felt nothing. There was no chair beneath her, nor a smooth desktop beneath her fingers. She was formless, a thought in the darkness. And, as with the hundreds of times before, she pushed the overwhelming fear aside.

  Concentrate, focus.

  The alternate reality was coming—was there. She just had to will her subconscious to accept it. The blackness faded into gray shadows.

  Focus!

  The shadows began to form into shapes—the spike of grass, the tall length of a lamppost, the lump of a bush, the outline of a person. He’s there already? Curiosity sharpened her thoughts, and without warning, she snapped into the alternate reality. Colors assaulted her full blast, and a hand against her shoulder kept her from stumbling forward.

  She closed her right eye. Through the RL, she saw a boy on her computer screen.

  He was dressed in simple clothes, as she’d fed into the data stream. Loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt, minus the casts he wore back in the hospital bed. His feet…

  Craters! She’d forgotten shoes.

  Withdrawing his hand, he stepped back, his narrowed gaze searching her face. Without the cuts and bruises, he didn’t look much older than her own sixteen years of age. She reopened her eye, and the screen disappeared, leaving her fully immersed once again in the alternate reality.

  The boy spoke: “Who are you?”

  “I’m Viala.”

  His gaze narrowed further. She hadn’t introduced herself properly. The starship was keen on genealogy and keeping track of who you came from. When there were only so many of you—humans in the void of space—it felt important.

  “I am Tanis Harker, son of Vicky Gliori and Rultin Harker,” the boy said.

  Viala lifted her chin and said quietly, “I am Viala Chesney, daughter of Margaso Ritz.” She was not ashamed of her mother.

  The boy’s eyes widened as her last name sunk in. “You’re the mad scientist’s daughter.”

  She didn’t know this boy—didn’t know a thing about him—but still, his words stung. “Yes, that’s right. I’m the mad scientist’s daughter. But I’m also the girl who’s talking to you while you’re in a coma.” She turned away. Not because she was angry—well, maybe a little—but because, stars! It had worked! Here was the boy, this Tanis, and she was communicating with him. Pride filled her. She was worth more than just the patch of a cooking pot.

  “A coma…?” Tanis raised his fist and pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “How…? I don’t…”

  “You don’t remember?” Viala watched him, sympathy rising in her,
cooling the spark of anger in her chest. “There was a crash. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes. I was with Dr. Purmell. We were going to Neris for samples. Something went wrong with the shooter. The controls wouldn’t respond. That’s all—” Tanis’s lips thinned, and his gaze retreated inward as he pondered something.

  It must be overwhelming, learning this, Viala thought. Giving him some space, she turned to the glass wall to her right. The Skybridge floated thousands of feet above the planet, Neris. The long rectangular platform had been built as a way to allow people access to the outside. Plots of vegetables and flowers surrounded the central green, an area of open grass frequented by picnickers. At the far end, a flight of steps connected the platform to the starship. Immense, it hovered overhead like a fabled mountain out of legend.

  “How can this be happening?”

  She turned and looked at him. He was poised as if ready to run, and she realized he was scared. When she didn’t answer right away, he took a step back.

  “Are you part of it? What happened? With the crash?”

  She shook her head. “What do you mean? I’m not part of anything. I’m just experimenting…” On you, like a guinea pig.

  He stared at her, eyes hard like chips of stone.

  She tried again. “I created a program that allows communication with coma victims. That’s why I’m here.”

  There was no need to hide it from him. Not when she’d also created a blinking button at the bottom of her screen that would purge this conversation from his memories when he awoke. But still, anxiety surged through her like a violent tailwind. This was the first time she’d ever admitted her abilities to anyone.

  “So you’re an inventor, like your father.”

  “I’m not like him at all.” Viala turned her head and stared unwaveringly at the view below. Clouds chased each other across Neris, sending patchworks of shadow across the ground. It was a beautiful planet—vibrant, green, and decidedly deadly. Neris’s atmosphere was breathable and compatible with human oxygen needs but supported nothing else. Not water, nor soil, nor flora. It was an ongoing struggle to clear even an acre of land of the native toxins. The starship’s scientists were doing their best, but so far, the colonization of Neris was almost a total failure.

  “But someone wanted you to talk to me, right?”

  She sighed, wondering at his paranoia. Was it a strange side effect of imposing a forced reality on a brain unable to choose for itself?

  “No. I’m doing this on my own. It’s the curse of a curious mind. How do you feel?” she asked, ready to start asking some questions of her own.

  “Good. I feel… good.”

  If he’d reported any pain—particularly in his head—she’d have shut down the program immediately. Reassured that everything was working properly, she said, “Great. Now what did you mean about the crash? Why would you assume I had anything to do with that?”

  It was possible, if Tanis had brain injuries, they would translate through the program. Sad, but—

  “I don’t think the crash was an accident.”

  Something dark skittered across Viala’s skin. “Why is that?”

  “I think the shooter was tampered with, because for some reason, someone wanted the scientist I was piloting dead. Everything was just fine when we took off. It wasn’t until we were well underway that things just… stopped. The power failed. And I went over the shooter myself before we launched. Everything was in working order. There’s no reason for it to have crashed.”

  “Mechanics do fail,” Viala said gently. “Sometimes when we least expect it.”

  “How about Dr. Purmell? How is he doing?”

  “I’m sorry, but he didn’t survive.”

  Tanis turned shuttered eyes to the blooming gardens of the Skybridge and once again went somewhere else. Viala wondered whether it was a trait of his or some glitch in the program. He stayed quiet for so long, she was about to snap her fingers in front of his face, but suddenly, he blinked and said, “Something just doesn’t feel right. I know we shouldn’t have crashed. The shooter was fine.”

  “I know it’s hard to accept, but—”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “It’s just that you’ve been through a traumatic injury. Things might not seem as they really are to you right now, which, in turn, is making you question everything.”

  Tanis huffed quietly. “Then how about this for questioning: I don’t normally do planet runs. I’m strictly on starship maintenance.”

  Viala tapped her fingers on her elbow as she regarded him. In day-to-day life, it wasn’t unusual to look out a window and see a shooter buzzing about, checking the starship’s exterior, and making repairs if needed.

  “So when my name showed up on the run board to escort a scientist, a Dr. Purmell, to planet, I thought maybe someone had gotten sick, and”—he dragged a hand through his hair—“it was exciting to get to do something new, something different.”

  She could understand that. She felt the same excitement every time she left the cooking pots behind for her secret lab.

  “But it makes sense now.” He turned on his heel and walked a short way down a path bordering a pepper garden. “Why whoever wanted Dr. Purmell gone would have picked me as the accompanying pilot, I mean. My parents are dead, as are my grandparents. I have no siblings. I’m easily disposable, since there’s no one to kick up a fuss about me.”

  His blunt words pricked at a tender place behind Viala’s ribs. “I’m sorry about your family.”

  “It was the flu epidemic. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to have lost someone in it.”

  “I know.” Viala could clearly recall the fear that had gripped the starship when a virulent strain of influenza had hit several years ago. Besides her father’s name, “flu” was the most hated word on the starship.

  His eyes lost some of their edge as he heard the sadness she couldn’t keep from her voice. “You too, huh?”

  She nodded. “My grandparents.”

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Tanis shoved his hands into his pockets. “So how is this possible?” he asked, indicating the Skybridge with a tilt of his chin.

  “Through a virtual simulation,” Viala said, relieved to talk of something besides the crash and the flu. “I had to pick a location somewhere, and I thought this was—”

  “Better than any place on the starship?” Tanis supplied.

  A corner of her mouth rose. “Exactly.”

  Tanis looked sideways at her, his mouth mirroring her own. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit intense. Thank you for what you’ve done.”

  Uncomfortable, Viala shrugged. “You don’t have to thank me. I’ve done nothing. I mean… this sounds bad, but I really just wanted to see if my invention worked.” Her cheeks warmed as Tanis chuckled.

  “Well, I’m glad you did. It’s a great invention. Will I remember this when I… if I wake up?”

  “Hey.” She reached out to touch his arm but thinking better of it withdrew her hand. “You’ll wake up. The nurses are taking great care of you. So, yes, when you wake up, you’ll remember.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth—that she couldn’t let him remember, couldn’t risk the starship finding out that she was as inventive as her father had been. To them, it would just translate as crazy.

  Tanis yawned. “Wow. Who would have thought being in a coma could make you tired?”

  Viala straightened. “No, it’s the program. I put yawning in as a warning flag for when your mind could no longer support the extra activity. You—I—we need to go.”

  “Okay.” He dropped his hands to his sides, clearly not sure what to do. “Well, then, thank you again. And Viala?”

  The sound of her name on his lips sent a warm fission of energy through
her.

  “Be careful, will you? And just… forget what I said.” He tapped his temple. “Little addled up here, right?”

  She smiled, unsure of what she could say to that. “Goodbye, Tanis.”

  She closed her left eye, and the computer screen swam into focus. She opened the command box and said, “Deactivate NARP.”

  He disappeared.

  The computer was off. It was getting late. Viala knew she should go to bed for two reasons: one, she had a thumping headache, a side-effect of using NARP, and two, work started early in the kitchens with breakfast preparations. But her conversation with Tanis kept playing over and over in her mind.

  Tanis had truly believed someone had intentionally done something to the shooter, causing it to crash. And while she wanted to believe that his brain injury had made him think such a thing, she wasn’t sure anymore.

  She should just go to bed. She should be happy. NARP had worked without a hitch. She should be proud, and in her pajamas, and wishing fiercely on the stars for Tanis’s swift recovery. She should not be powering her computer back up and hacking the starship’s security grid—or after that, leaving the apartment.

  Outside, it was quiet, the starship operating at a more leisurely pace than it did during the day. Only a few people were out and about, seeing to the needs of their home while the majority of its occupants slept.

  Viala wandered to Observation. A wall of windows looked out at the night sky. They were docked low enough that the gardens on the Skybridge could flourish and those who enjoyed them didn’t need oxygen masks. But space wasn’t far; a forever-long expanse spread above, the blackness studded with glittering light.

  To anyone watching, it looked as if Viala were combating a bout of insomnia with some star-gazing. In reality, she was biding her time until 23:47. With the hack of the security grid, she’d set a specific group of cameras to go on an “all is well here” loop for the next hour. It was how she’d snuck into the starship’s labs when she’d been raiding to build her own.