Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Um... what is this operation?“ I asked meekly, trying to keep my eyes off the bare midriff of the blonde with her glasses slipping down to the end of a pert, grease-smudged nose.

  “Nebula miners,“ replied the red head swinging her magnifiers by the ear piece. “I’m Saraz, mining engineer. The woman you are ogling most offensively is Patin, our ship’s engineer.“

  “Suel here, I’m the containment specialist, making sure anything toxic or radioactive that comes aboard from the ram scoop stays isolated where it needs to.“ She had her glasses stuffed into her breast pocket. And a nicely sized breast it was.

  “Half,“ I demanded. “You can’t sell your particles on the open market without a licensed captain aboard this bucket of bolts. Without me, you’re pirates.“ I folded my arms and glared around the bridge, wondering what had happened to their last captain. Had he committed suicide mid-flight when the geek-speak got to be too much?

  Bright and shiny state-of-the-art computers, navigation, and analyzers told me a lot about their operation. The ram scoop latched to the outside of the cargo bay was huge, and brand new. These gals made money, and probably re-invested everything into their ship.

  Question was, did they keep the outside looking like a bucket of bolts to fool the tax collectors, or did they honestly not have enough left over to spruce up the joint?

  “He’s got a point. I’m Mayab the geologist,“ a chestnut haired woman introduced herself. Her glasses were suspended around her neck on a chain that looked like pure platinum. “And that’s Judit our mineralogist.“ She pointed toward another blonde with short curls who seemed to ignore us all.

  “We offer fair compensation based upon the recommendations...“

  “Half, or you sit here running up huge docking fees.“ I had to convince them fast, before they figured out they could probably ace the captain’s tests. I suspected they already knew how to fly.

  “Flat rate,“ the brunette with her eyes glued to data graphs on a screen said. “Can’t afford more.“

  I turned and aimed my steps toward the exit.

  “Equal share,“ Saraz came back. “Can’t guarantee your share will amount to equal flat rate.“

  Did I have some wiggle room in that offer?

  “You pilot the ship and you negotiate with harbormasters and bankers,“ Patin added.

  I smiled, knowing full well how big the ram scoop was. I also knew a few coordinates for nebulas that hadn’t been officially discovered yet. With their brains and my sneakiness we stood to make a fortune or six. Eventually. If I survived endless weeks in transit being bored by five Geek Girls who could only talk about their work.

  oOo

  Irene Radford...

  ...has been writing stories ever since she figured out what a pencil was for. A member of an endangered species, a native Oregonian who lives in Oregon, she and her husband make their home in Welches, Oregon where deer, bears, coyotes, hawks, owls, and woodpeckers feed regularly on their back deck.

  oOo

  Coming Soon from Book View Press:

  The Shadow Conspiracy

  Frankenstein was no mere fiction, but the fictionalizing of a fateful experiment by some of the most brilliant, creative — and tortured — minds of their century to create a perfect, immortal body into which a human soul could be transferred. No longer would humanity suffer from the ravages of time or decay, but would be freed to create a more perfect, more artistic world.

  Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Mary Shelley were at the center of The Great and Noble Experiment. But the morning the first transfer of a human soul into the new host body was to occur, Mary Shelly and the creation — the Prometheus Prototype — vanished.

  The Conspiracy fell apart, their grand purpose lost. And yet, in the aftermath of their experiment, the soul is no longer ephemeral, theoretical, or philosophical, but has been proven to have a presence and a substance in the physical realm. It can be identified, catalogued, manipulated, re-housed and misused.

  Twenty years later, Lord Byron’s only legitimate daughter, Ada Byron, the Countess Lovelace, has inherited her father’s genius, if not his madness. With Charles Babbage, inventor of the analytical engine, she has invented the “automatic sciences,“ whereby mechanical automata may be created that precisely mimic human action, and even human thought.

  Automata serve in great homes, factories are becoming increasingly and elaborately mechanized, and steam engines for the burgeoning railways keep their own time schedules. Dirigibles and flying automata have brought the Empire — and piracy — into the Air Age.

  And yet, just as things seem ideal for a Golden Age of Automata, spontaneous, unexplained erratic mechanical behaviors are being reported. Several prominent natural philosophers and radical practitioners of the automatic sciences are beginning to talk about machines having natural identities; of their becoming somehow “ensouled.“ It is suggested — quietly, so the Church does not hear — that sufficiently complex machines might be able to house souls of their own, the same as human flesh and brain.

  Lovelace and Babbage themselves dismiss the notion as nonsense. But then someone sends Ada pages torn from her father’s memoirs — memoirs that were supposed to have been burned. And slowly, the true darkness in the shadows is revealed.

  The Shadow Conspriacy is a collection of tales from some of speculative fiction’s leading lights, exploring the lives of the dreamers, experimenters and engineers who work their mechanical and metaphysical magic both for good... and evil. The stories will be tied together by the unfolding story of what actually happened that fateful night on Lake Geneva in 1816 — and how that changed everything we thought we knew about science and ourselves.

  Read on for special previews of Book View Café’s anthology

  The Shadow Conspiracy

  Coming soon from Book View Café Press.

  The Persistence of Souls

  Sarah Zettel

  London, England, 1840

  “Vigilance. Vigilance.“

  Gregory Beale stumbled through the French doors of the Lovelace House conservatory, clutching his blackened right arm to the ruin of his chest. Around him, brass and enamel trees glimmered in the moonlight. The scent of smoke and charred flesh he carried with him mingled with the scents of oranges and roses created for this place by a leading Parisian parfumeur. A silver cat stalked past him without pause as he staggered forward and a golden stag paced unconcerned behind the lemon trees. Only the jeweled serpents twining through the branches paused to notice the monster he had become shambling through their jeweled Eden.

  Pain lanced through the bones of his face and straight into his brain. The singing of the host of mechanical birds was torture to his remaining ear, and a constant steady ticking as of a thousand pocket watches set his injuries throbbing to its rhythm. He knew if that ticking ever faded, one of the three keymen standing silently against the wall would move to locate the faltering creation and wind it up again using the proper key from the great ring on its belt.

  But not one of them would move to help him. Not without its mistress’s orders.

  “Vigilance,“ he rasped again as he shambled forward. Please, please, let them recognize me. “Vigilance!“

  A bronze mastiff appeared from around the edge of the fountain. Around its feet clustered three black lacquered spiders, each the size of a pigeon.

  Beale’s legs would carry him no further. The impact as he tumbled to the floor felt as if it must shatter his charred bones. A spider scuttled closer. From his one good eye, Beale could see the orange hourglass emblazoned on the mechanism’s belly. It would finish him off in a moment if he didn’t make himself known. For a heartbeat he was of a mind to let it.

  “Vigilance,“ Beale croaked toward the dog. “I am Gregory Poke Beale. Fetch your mistress.“

  The dog’s tail waved twice, steady as a metronome. Then, it turned and padded away, its paws clicking lightly against the mosaic floor.

  With the dog’s departure, the
spiders folded their legs, becoming little more than black stones. Some odd detached part of his mind was aware that it was a great privilege to be observing these delicate creations so closely, even if it was only through one eye. Even if it was only through a haze of burning pain.

  “Mr. Beale.“

  Beale tried to lift his head and failed. The Countess Lovelace crouched down beside him. “What has happened?“

  “So sorry, my lady.“ He turned his face toward her and she gasped as she saw the ravages of the burn, how the brass rim of his flying goggles had been embedded into his flesh.

  “Are they here now? The ones who did this to you?“

  He shook his head slowly. “Can’t know I survived the crash,“ he grated. “Would’ve caught me... so sorry, my lady.“

  “Who did this to you? Who is responsible?“

  The pain was drifting away. It was all but gone. He tried to think, but he was too filled with wonder. The relief was indescribable. He would be able to sleep now. He could sleep, and all would be better.

  “Mr. Beale!“

  She was speaking to him, Countess Lovelace. So beautiful. Never had thought she would be so. He wanted to answer her, but he could not. Sleep was so close. Sleep and the pain would never return.

  “Answer me, Mr. Beale! Who did this to you?“

  With a supreme effort, Beale made his ruined mouth move.

  “Your father,“ he whispered at last. “Your father.“

  But it was too much, the return to the pain and the fear. I’m sorry. Truly, my lady, I am.

  Gregory Beale let beautiful oblivion claim him.

  oOo

  Trembling, Ada Lovelace stood. She put her hands to her face. When she lowered them again, she was pale but calm.

  “Bastion,“ she said.

  One of the keymen moved forward smoothly.

  “Remove Mr. Beale.“ She bit her lip. “Take Carriage No. 1 to the Camden facility.“ It would be bad enough to have him found there, but better there than in the house. “Leave him in alley Number 3. Do you understand?“

  The keyman bowed again.

  “Gently,“ said Ada.

  Bastion bent and tenderly scooped up the blackened corpse. Cradling Mr. Beale’s remains, Bastion moved to the open door and walked out into the garden. Ada, the mastiff pacing beside her, closed the door behind it, turning the three locks.

  For a moment she stood there, her palm pressed flat against the cold glass.

  For a moment she stood there, her palm pressed flat against the cold glass. Ada King, Countess Lovelace was a fashionably slim woman, but unfashionably tall. Her wide-set brown eyes were called intelligent by her friends and cold by her detractors. Her features were regular, even pretty, but her coarse and ink-stained hands were the despair of her family and her lady’s maid.

  Ada wanted to pray, to grieve. She wanted to feel anything except the horrible wish that Mr. Beale had waited one more day to die.

  Gradually, the familiar steady ticking that filled the garden slipped inside her, calming the riot of thought and emotion. She was able to lift her head, more than a little relieved to find her cheeks were wet.

  I remain human after all.

  “Come, Vigilance,“ she ordered softly.

  With the mastiff beside her, Ada left the garden by the interior door. She did not have to look back to know the spiders returned to their hiding places.

  Shadow Dancer

  Irene Radford

  London, June 1841

  I was about to toss the pages on top of the others on the floor when one last sentence caught my attention.

  Ballet du Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique to present Giselle, a new ballet, music composed by Adolphe Adam. Choreography by Jean Corelli and Jules Perrot.

  Giselle? Why did I know that name? Why had those two sentences resonated with the image of the silver dancer?

  Giselle.

  Lady Ada was currently in Paris with her business partner Charles Babbage. She had said before leaving last week something about assisting a new artistic project.

  I returned to the ground floor private parlour and pulled a blank brass key from the locked chest inside the safe buried in the floor. Then I took the tool to the central carousel of the Book View Café. The clientele had rotated. Several regulars nodded or waved. I responded with like greetings, not allowing any of them to interrupt my mission.

  Inside a small circular counter, I fired up the selector. I pulled a lever here, pushed buttons there, following a special Automatic Science language developed by Lady Ada, Countess Lovelace. A genius in her own right, she had applied her talents to mathematics and the new automatic sciences, making her one of the wealthiest women in the world.

  One hundred twenty-seven codes in place, I inserted the key into the machine. A hiss of steam, a grinding of engaging gears and blades whirred to notch the key. Conversation ceased for a moment, then rose in volume to be heard above the noise of the engines.

  At last I withdrew the intricately scrolled key and balanced it on my palm. It stretched from fingertip to wrist, weighing more than three full cups of coffee. This part of the ritual complete, I paraded across the room to the middle wall of books. I felt eyes follow my progress.

  The exclusive card files for this library fascinated readers and inventors alike. Everyone wanted one of their own. Lady Lovelace had created only one, for her use to access the library we had compiled. I was allowed the use of it in return for storing it in my coffee house. She occasionally sent her operatives to me with requests. But only I operated the machine.

  I inserted the key into its special hole, turned it all the way around once, listening as it flipped tiny pins setting gears into motion. Then I pushed it deeper into the hole, turned it again. More pins slid aside. A third time around and the chug of interconnections became audible to the entire room. I put all of my weight and strength into pulling down the long brass and wood lever. Steam rose up and spilled from cracks between bookcases and floor boards.

  Click, grind, snick. The machine engaged. Bookshelves rotated in opposite directions. They shifted top to bottom, bottom to middle, rotated again, shifted again.

  We all watched the majestic dance of books around the room.

  A dance less graceful than the one I’d seen in my vision.

  Detailed requests of obscure information could take hours. Giselle produced three books of Germanic folklore in a matter of ten minutes. One slender volume, little more than a pamphlet, and two thicker volumes swooshed down the chute and into my outstretched hands. All together they did not weigh as much as the key.

  A round of applause erupted around the coffee house. I curtsied with a dramatic flourish of my hand, clutching the books close against my bosom.

  I retreated to the lounge once more.

  The pamphlet proved to be a sermon written by Herr Doktor Sigmund Voldemort who had died one hundred years ago. He spent twenty pages exhorting young men to woo women only when their hearts beat with true love, respect, and commitment. Otherwise they would fall victim to the woodland spirits called the Wili, singular Wilis, maidens who had died of a broken heart and lingered in ghostly form needing to seek vengeance on all men, especially those who dallied. Their fate was to force the men to join the Wili in heathenish and profane dancing until dawn, or until the men died. Whichever came first. He cited the name Giselle as an example as if his audience should know her name.

  Two sentences about the Wili. And one particular Wilis. The rest of the pamphlet centered on the sin of dalliance.

  I set it aside and turned to the fatter volumes. The first compiled multiple bits of folklore in a long and meandering prose tale listing the dangers within the deep dark forest. Everything from Hansel and Gretel to Giselle and Myrta, Queen of the Wili. I found a few more details. A Wilis, the text reported, appeared lovely and ethereal, drifting through the forest with no more substance than mist, supported by small fluttering wings, wearing flimsy ball gowns of misty green.

/>   A woodcut showing Myrta dancing among the trees with a corsage of wildflowers made me pause. Moonlight and death bleached her skin to the color and texture of white silk. She looked very like the silver shadow dancer I’d seen in my cup. Similar not the same. I couldn’t put my finger on the exact difference. Yet.

  When I reached for the third volume the setting sun sent a shaft of brilliant gold beneath the cloud cover to pierce the gloom of the lounge. Sunset in June comes late in the northern climes. I’d spent more than half a day in this quest. My stomach growled and the grit of thirst closed my throat. I reached for the bell to summon refreshment. The book, open to the woodcut, shifted in my lap so that the light fell directly on Myrta’s face.