Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

It will not hurt you. And as if reading my mind. It will not detract from your muscle mass.

  “Promise?“

  Promise.

  So I ate the yams and sauce as well.

  “Nice to see that your appetite has returned,“ Dr. Bertrand remarked. He entered my room just as I finished the last forkful of super sweet gateau.

  “Let’s just monitor the activity of my nanobots after your workout today. There should be a slight increase in activity as you rebuild your strength.“ He attached sticky pads to either side of each knee and then stuck wires to the brackets on each pad. The wires led to a hand-held monitor the size of my all-in-one cell phone.

  The gadget clicked and hummed to itself, much like the nanos hummed in the back of my head. We’d been through this procedure every day since my surgery and rehab.

  Dr. Bertrand frowned. “I have never seen activity at these levels. If I did not know better, I’d say I’d given you four treatments, not one. I don’t see how the number of nanobots I gave you can generate these readings.“

  The monitor began beeping to a lilting Andalusian tune. En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor, by Joquin Rodrigo, I thought. A nice piece, easy to dance to.

  “You said the nanobots had self repair and replication capabilities to give them longevity.“ I tried to look innocent. As long as the nanobots appreciated music and let me dance they could replicate themselves a thousand times over.

  “No dance for you tomorrow,“ Dr. Bertrand said through his frown. “You did too much. The nanos won’t be able to keep up with repairs if you keep pushing yourself like this.“

  “I’m checking myself out and going home tomorrow,“ I replied icily.

  “You can’t! You aren’t ready. You’ll collapse before you get to the airport.“

  The monitor buzzed and beeped then returned to a much slower pulsing tone, the tone it should have had before I had exposed the nanobots to music.

  I smiled sweetly at Dr. Bertrand. The nanos had completed their repair job for the day.

  For three days the nanos kept me anchored to the barre while I worked.

  When they finally released me for some true dance — after a good warm up at the barre of course — I almost shouted with joy.

  “Computer, Woodland Rhapsody by Alexander,“ I called to the music system. The lilting strains of my favorite piece of music in the world drifted out from the speakers; a New Age piece played on synthesizer and Uilleann pipes.

  I began the slow twisting moves of the dance created especially for me two years ago, just after my first bout of tendinitis. The work had become my signature piece. I always ended solo performances with this dance. I always received standing ovations and dozens of bouquets of roses when I performed it.

  The adulation was nice, but did not compare to the sheer joy of dancing to this music.

  Tears came to my eyes as the music overwhelmed me. I became the dance, the music, the art.

  By the time I completed the triumphant celebration at the end, my ears rang and sweat dripped from every pore of my body. My heart beat too rapidly.

  “Now you know,“ I told the nanobots, “why humanity craves art. Existence is chaos, conflict and fear. Art is the flower bud of beauty that allows us to step back from the horrors of life so we can find the hope and joy in living.“

  I exulted in finally being close to what I was meant to be. Only one more step remained in my recovery.

  Inside me, the nanos wept with awe.

  oOo

  We have spent some time working on your pelvic muscles, the nanos informed me as I entered the dressing room of a private studio in London.

  “What’s wrong with my pelvis?“ I sank onto one of the benches and began digging leg warmers and pointe shoes out of my bag.

  I was due to open at the Royal Albert Hall in just two weeks. I needed to get into rehearsals in the next day or two at the latest. But I didn’t want anyone to see my first venture onto pointe. Certainly the nanos would protest. The argument might take several hours. But I knew how to convince them.

  A lifetime of carrying your bags and books and things on the same hip. Then an imbalance in your posture — you tighten your butt but neglect your abs. You had pushed the joints out of alignment. We have corrected that and stimulated the muscles so that they hold.

  “Oh. A lifetime of bad habits. Thank you for correcting it. I’ll work on eliminating those bad habits.“ I loved this new relationship with my nanos. I’d found that I could finally indulge my appetite without gaining weight. The nanos put every calorie to good use. They’d added firmness to my breasts, eliminating the beginnings of sag. My skin felt fresher and more elastic all over my body.

  I arched my feet within the pointe shoes and tied the ribbons securely.

  A strange numbing silence took over the back of my neck.

  I slipped from the dressing room into the studio and took my position at the bar. No time to waste putting music in the CD player in the corner. I had to do this before the nanos became suspicious and closed me down. I’d just have to hum along to my warm up routine.

  The silence in my head spread through my shoulders and arms as I dipped into my first round of pliés.

  Biting my lip, for concentration, I rose out of the bend and continued stretching up and up until my feet rolled to a full point within the special shoes.

  Fire lanced through all of the delicate bones and muscles from toe to knee and upward.

  NO! You can’t do this.

  “I will do this. The dance is not complete without pointe shoes. The lines of my body are asymmetrical unless I continue the line of my feet into a full point.“ I dropped down to flat. The fire went away.

  I tried again.

  The pain increased and rose up to my hips and into my heart and lungs.

  Gasping for breath I bent double.

  The moment my heels touched the ground the pain reduced to a burning ache. Air rushed back into my lungs.

  “Let’s try something else.“ I marched over to the portable CD player in the corner and shoved in a disc. By the time I returned to the barre, the nanos had begun to hum along.

  Hoping I’d lulled them into submission, I tried again.

  They reacted more violently. I collapsed onto the floor, straining to breathe through the pain.

  We cannot allow you to damage yourself beyond our ability to repair you.

  “Then get busy and replicate a bunch more of you. I will do this. The dance is not complete unless I go on pointe. My career is finished if I can’t dance on pointe. Without my career, I am nothing.“

  Silence.

  When I could bear to stand up again, I tried one more time to rise up on pointe.

  This time the nanos reduced me to puddle of pain and tears. I had to crawl back to the dressing room.

  Inside the studio the music continued its lonesome routine, playing for the dance without a dancer.

  oOo

  Alone in the dead of night, I sat on the bed of my furnished flat and stared at the bottle of pain pills Dr. Bertrand had given me. Sixty of the big green caplets with the unpronounceable name. Heavy duty medication, barely legal in the U.S., and certainly not in the dosage and numbers in that bottle. Enough to last me an entire month if I took the prescribed amount of one with breakfast and another when I went to bed.

  Was it enough?

  I arched my feet one more time.

  No reaction from the nanos.

  I stood up and stretched into a long arabesque.

  Still no reaction.

  I reached for my pointe shoes.

  The nanos collapsed every muscle in my body.

  Crying for all my lost hopes and dreams, crying for the end of my art and dance, crying for the end of me, I crawled back onto the bed.

  The bottle of pills still stood on the nightstand. A big glass of water sat beside it.

  Choking on my tears I shook six pills into my hand and reached for the water.

  What are you doing? the nanos asked in alarm.r />
  “The only thing I can do. You won’t let me dance. Without my art, my life is reduced to mere existence. There is no hope, no joy, no beauty.“

  You may dance, just not with those torture devices.

  “That is the only way I can perform ballet. The dance is not complete without an audience.“

  Then invent a new form of dance, a less destructive form that does not require turnout or pointe shoes.

  “They call that modern dance. I find it ugly.“

  I swallowed one pill.

  It went down sideways and stuck in my throat. I gagged and drank more water until it cleared.

  Damn. Now I’d have to get more water to take the rest of the pills.

  One is enough.

  “No it isn’t. Not to end the pain in here.“ I slammed my fist into my heart. A new spate of tears blurred my vision as I refilled the glass of water.

  You will damage yourself. We cannot allow that.

  “You have damaged my identity, my very soul to the point of no return.“ I tried to put another pill into my mouth and found my hand shaking so badly I dropped them all.

  Cursing I crawled around on the floor seeking them out.

  You will end your existence if you take all those pills.

  “And your point would be?“ I found four. That should do the job. And there were others in the bottle. If my hands stopped shaking long enough to open the childproof cap.

  You cannot mean to end your existence! they cried in alarm.

  “I mean precisely to do that.“ I managed to get a second pill into my mouth.

  But, but...

  I’d never known the nanos to splutter.

  It didn’t matter any longer. I had to do this. I grasped the glass of water firmly.

  “Without the dance, I am nothing. All of the pain, and agony, cutting myself off from friends, denying myself the pleasure of a movie, or an art museum, or a loving relationship... I endured all of that because it interfered with my dancing. Now I have nothing. I am nothing.“

  If you kill yourself, then we will die too.

  “So? What good are you if you won’t let me dance?“ I got the glass as far as my mouth.

  Then my hand clenched so tightly the glass shattered. Water sprayed all over me. The precious pill dropped to the floor once more.

  Blood ran down my hand and dripped on the floor from half a dozen glass cuts.

  “Now look what you made me do.“

  We cannot allow you to terminate yourself or us.

  “I’ll find a way.“ I picked up one of the larger pieces of glass. Big enough and sharp enough. I aimed it over the big artery in my wrist. I remembered reading somewhere that those who were serious about their suicide slashed lengthwise, along the artery. Cutting crosswise was only a gesture by those who cried for help.

  I watched my blood pulse in my wrist and poised it to slash lengthwise.

  Is destroying your body with pointe shoes more important than living?

  “Dancing on pointe is an essential part of the dance... of living.“ I brought the glass shard closer to my wrist, bracing myself against the pain I knew would come. The final pain I must endure.

  If we let you dance on pointe will you continue to live?

  “Dancing on pointe is life to me. Without the pointe shoes I cannot perform, I cannot complete the art of dance without an audience.“

  A huge sigh of resignation ran through my body.

  Clean up the broken glass, then sleep. We must replicate ourselves one hundred times over to accommodate your art. For the sake of beauty.

  Crying in relief I obeyed and flushed the last of the pills down the toilet. The nanos had given me another chance to live.

  oOo

  “Donna, you’ve never looked more radiant!“ Lucien, the company director, gushed as he gathered me in a hug tight enough to disrupt the layers of blue chiffon that constituted my costume.

  “It’s all that time I spent in bed recuperating from surgery,“ I lied by way of explanation. He’d never understand the sentient nanobots in my system that kept my body looking and performing like a twenty-year-old.

  I watched the rehearsal this afternoon. Rhapsody was positively poignant. You’ve added new dimension to your work.“ He held me at arm’s length inspecting my new costume: complete with a crown of flowers, wisps of green leaves about the chiffon, and fluttery wings on a flexible wire. My fairy costume.

  “Your knees working okay?“ Lucien had known me to dance through excruciating pain without admitting it.

  “Better than new. The procedure worked miracles.“

  “How long will it last? This company needs you dancing. Our receipts were way down during your absence. Audiences just do not react to your understudy the same way they love you.“

  He’d recommended conventional surgical techniques when the tendinitis first hit me three years ago. Those procedures were really only temporary pain relief. Joints never were the same afterward.

  “My knees will outlive you.“ I smiled graciously at the white-haired gentleman of a certain age. He’d been around so long no one dared ask how old he was, and yet he had more energy and stamina than a dozen dancers put together.

  In fact, he’d pointed me toward Dr. Bertrand and his controversial techniques when my pain became so acute I could not walk.

  I wondered...

  “But will your knees outlive you? That is the important part.“

  I smiled enigmatically.

  “Time for you to go on, Donna.“ He kissed my cheek. “Merdre,“ he whispered the universal “Good luck“ of all dancers. Though why we said “Shit“ to each other in French I’ll never know.

  “I have to go easy on the jumps,“ I apologized.

  No jumps, the nanos nearly screamed in my ear.

  “There are no jumps in this dance.“ Lucien looked puzzled.

  “I’ve added a small tourjeté and pas de chat.“ Next week I’d make those little jumps bigger. Then we’d go for the truly magnificent grand jeté leaps I had once been famous for.

  We won’t let you undo all our repairs with jumps and leaps and such.

  “That’s what you think,“ I told the nanos sotto voce.

  “Did you say something?“ Lucien asked.

  “Just a little mantra to psyche myself up for my premiere.“

  No jumps.

  “We’ll see about that.“ I could out-stubborn mad ballet masters, cranky conductors, and insistent bean counters like Lucien. What were a few nanobots to a true dancer?

  “If I don’t jump, leap, and turn, the dance is not complete.“

  We must complete the dance. To dance is to live.

  Exactly!

  oOo

  P.R. Frost...

  ...and her husband make their home on Mt. Hood in Oregon. They frequently hike on the mountain and in the Columbia River Gorge. They share their home with a psychotic Lilac Point Siamese.

  P.R.’s trained in classical ballet, dancing with the acclaimed pro-am company Ballet du Lac in Lake Oswego, Oregon.

  Join P. R. on her Live Journal blog http://www.livejournal.com/users/rambling_phyl and share her latest hiking adventures, progress reports on her books, and gushing over wildflowers.

  Abelard’s Kiss

  Madeleine E. Robins

  Beatrice’s lover was made of lip. She wouldn’t say where she’d found it. Susannah, more than anyone else at the party, knew Beatrice’s theatricality, her beautifully detailed gestures. Susannah, more than anyone else there, knew that to give way to her curiosity was to give way to Beatrice.

  Still, “Lip, Beatrice?“ she murmured, trying to sound wry and doubtful.

  “Uh huh.“ Beatrice’s smile broadened and shone on Susannah; she finished her wine and turned to get more.

  Was she the only one in Renata’s living room who had heard Beatrice? Susannah wondered. Or did the others take the casual statement as an example, either of Beatrice’s extravagance or of her hyperbole? No one but Susannah seemed particu
larly interested. And beside the delicious, disturbing image of Beatrice’s lover there was only one thought in Susannah’s mind: not to show Beatrice she was intrigued. Captivated. Hooked again, like the old days.

  “Wanna see something?“ Beatrice would whisper. They were sammies then, refugee kids at a Samaritan school after the Big Everything, the disaster of ’19 which had wiped out so much of New York City. “It’ll cost you a halfie.“ And Susannah had found the half-dollar coin hidden in her pocket and given it to Beatrice and had been permitted to view the dead cat or the page torn from an old porn magazine or, once, the body of a bum who had frozen to death outside the school the night before.