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Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

An Anthology of Short Fiction

Edited by

Phyllis Irene Radford

and

Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

(assistant editor)

Copyrights

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

SPACE

Emancipation . . . by Pati Nagle

The Custodian of Oporto’s Island stood in the darkness of his house, listening to the growing murmur of voices in the Grove of Malamalama outside. It was not a feast day, when a large attendance might be expected at Nightfall, but the woods were full of people. He knew they had not come just to watch him perform the evening ritual. How he wished his father still lived; his father had loved the ceremonial aspect of the office of Custodian, while he himself dreaded it.

He donned his green robe and the tall feathered headdress that weighed heavily on him. A tight knot of fear grew in his stomach, for he alone was ultimately responsible for the sacred rite of Maintenance, and that responsibility was about to be challenged. He went to the door of his house, and as he stepped through the curtain that covered it, the drumming began.

Malamalama, the island’s axis, glowed bright with captured sunlight, its near end terminating in a shielded pole in the center of the ceremonial clearing outside the Custodian’s home. Dancers—men and women in the traditional garb of the hula kahiko, their hair and arms decked in the leaves and flowers of the island—waited around the pole, ready for Nightfall to begin. Among the ti trees at the Grove’s edge and back into the woods beyond were the island’s people, dozens upon dozens of them, more than he had seen at any ritual in months. The Custodian glimpsed his counterpart, the Governor, among the growing throng, and his belly tightened at the sight of her.

How often had he silently wished for her presence at Nightfall—his favorite hour—the beginning of the time when lovers could tryst in shadowed groves and not be observed by curious eyes from across the island’s sphere. How often had he dreamed of dancing for her alone, then taking her hand and leading her among the waterbelt’s gardens with the gentle night to cloak them. It was not to be. She did not come as Hoku, the sweet, laughing playmate of his childhood, but as Governor of the island, in the people’s name, to put an end to Night.

The Custodian took his place at the foot of the dais that held the Focus, and the rolling drums burst into rhythm. He chanted an ancient prayer to Pele, his hands echoing the words while the dancers swayed in the clearing surrounded by tall palms and bushes heavy with fragrant blossoms. When Pele had been duly honored, the ipu players began a faster rhythm and the Nightfall dance began. It was centuries old, one of many dances that kept alive the sacred heritage of Maintenance on Oporto’s Island, or Moku Wina as the island was called in the chants.

Through graceful gestures the dancers told the story of Moku Wina’s creation, how Oporto enticed Pele to come away from Earth and hollow out an asteroid, filling it with all the best things from Earth for the pleasure of his guests. Dancing hands told how the great mirrors outside caught light from the distant sun and fed it into the island through Malamalama, source of all blessings, and how Oporto had decreed the order of days and nights. As his hands led the story, the Custodian’s eyes watched the Governor standing at the clearing’s edge, waiting.

The chant ended and a hiss of gourd rattles began; the dancers knelt while the Custodian came forward to perform the ritual of Calibration. He kept his eyes on Hoku as he danced up to the pole and turned the key that sent beams of light shimmering toward the four sacred shrines around the clearing. His green robe flowing around him in graceful folds, he danced to each one in turn—Hi’iaka, Poliahu, Laka—passing his hands through the light and verifying its centering in the target on each shrine. As he came to Pele’s shrine he looked up, thinking a silent, hopeless prayer to the goddess whose rituals he had faithfully performed, and in whom he had never believed. She did not answer him. Shadows flickered over her image as his hands danced through the light, then he turned away, returning to the pole and shutting off the Calibration light before approaching the Focus.

The music intensified as he climbed the steps. Before him was the Focus that brought light into the island and sent it glowing along Malamalama; a large, ornate lever, completely unnecessary in a mechanical sense, but vital as a symbol of Maintenance. As the Custodian stepped toward it the drums suddenly stopped, and he heard what he had been fearing since the ritual began.

“Wait, Manuel.”

He turned to face Hoku, the Governor, his life-long friend, who had come up behind him. She did not smile, but stepped between him and the Focus, her red robe brushing the grass-covered dais. “The Council has made a decision,” she said, turning to face the people crowding the Grove. Her formal tones carried easily through the clearing and beyond. “Oporto’s Island has been dominated for centuries by the rituals of Nightfall and Dayrise. We treasure our heritage, but we are not savages, or children. We do not need lies to control us, or darkness to inspire us with fear. We are an enlightened people.

“Nightfall is a wasteful practice. Every time the Focus is shifted away from Malamalama, precious light is spilled into empty space. We can use that light to better our lives.”

The Governor turned to the Custodian, and he saw that her eyes were hard. “The Council has voted to eliminate the process of Nightfall, effective immediately.”

The crowd roared approval, and the Custodian felt a sinking in his chest. “That would violate Maintenance procedures,” he said over the din. “The Manuals clearly state—”

“The Council consider the Manuals open to interpretation,” said the Governor. “We have the right to reevaluate procedures when the good of the people is in question.”

“The Manuals were given to us by Oporto,” said the Custodian. “To deviate from their instructions will place the island and its people in peril!”

“The Council has debated this,” said Hoku, her face a careful mask. “We have concluded that to take the Manuals literally can place us in danger of misunderstanding their metaphorical intent.”

“Maintenance must be performed,” said Manuel, hoping he sounded firm despite his growing desperation.

“Manny,” said Hoku, her voice dropping to a whisper, “don’t make it hard on yourself. You haven’t got a choice.” For a moment her eyes poured warm sympathy into his, then she raised her arms, the folds of her crimson caftan sliding down to her golden shoulders as she turned to the people now crowding into the clearing and called out, “Henceforth, we live in light, not in darkness!”

A cheer went up among the people, and the Custodian’s courage crumbled. He gazed out over the crowd in worry. Here and there a mournful face stared back at him, mostly dancers or his acolytes, the Maintenance technicians. He was their spiritual leader, and they looked to him for guidance in this crisis, but his heart was empty. He had said all he could think to say. The Council ruled the island, and he must bow to their authority. He turned his eyes away from his followers and watched in numb despair as Hoku placed a hand on the great lever of the Focus. She borrowed two gestures from the dance; “light” and “forever.” The cheers grew louder.

Hoku beckoned to a Watcher—one of the guards serving the Council—and posted her on the dais to prevent any attempt to shift the focus. Then the Governor stepped down from the dais and passed into the crowd, touching the hands they reached out to her, moving away under the continuing daylight. The people followed, all but a few faithful who watched the Custodian expectantly as he slowly descended the steps. He stopped in the middle of the clearing and gazed at them, sensing and sharing their fear.

“What will happen, Manuel?” a young dancer asked, her worried face framed in the leaves and fresh flowers of her headdress. “Will Pele punish us?” Her eyes pleaded for reassurance.

Others gathered around with soft and frightened voices. The Custodian raised his hands to ward off their questions. “I will appeal to the Council,” he said. It was inadequate, he knew, but it was all he could offer. His followers exchanged doubting glances. He spread his arms in the wavelike gesture of blessing, which seemed to comfort them a little. “Go home,” he told them. “Close the curtains on your windows and doors. Bring night into your homes, and Pele will know you are faithful.”

“Thank you, Manuel,” they answered, the words rippling in a whispering wave through the small group as they drifted out of the clearing toward their homes.

He watched them go, their hands flashing in the spaces between leaves, speaking in silent, worried gestures. When they had passed out of sight Manuel went into his house and changed his ceremonial garb for light cotton, then went out—barefoot so he could feel the island with each step—through the Grove and down the path that led to the waterbelt. It was his custom to walk along the belt every evening after Nightfall, enjoying shadows and the soft sounds of water as it traveled endlessly around the island’s center; here a trickling stream, there a clever waterfall, lakes like jewels, some with stars flashing underfoot through viewbays lapped by their blue-black depths. The stars were barely visible now, obscured by the continuing daylight. Manuel stopped and glanced up at a viewbay overhead just as the sharp glint of a mirror’s edge passed it. Malamalama glowed steadily bright with the light which should have been diverted for night, some to replenish the great storage cells, the rest to pour off into space. Music began somewhere nearby, and wild shouting; the people celebrating their freedom from darkness. Suddenly Manuel needed to sit down.

He went to the nearest bench and lowered himself onto it with the weariness of a man many times his twenty-four years. A jasmine bush caressed him with its heavy scent. How had it come to this? he wondered. He was Manuel, descended from a long line of Manuels, the Custodians of the island since the time of the Separation, when Pele had returned her attention to Earth where Hi’iaka was making war on her. It was then that Oporto’s children had lost contact with the children of Earth. It was then that Oporto had created the Council, and set into law the Days and Nights of Moku Wina. It was then that the first Manuel had accepted the lifetime post of Custodian, and pledged to train his successor so that the island would always be cared for. And so it had been, until now.

Manuel searched his heart for the source of his failure. He had studied and preserved the Manuals in whose honor he was named, faithfully performed all of the Maintenance rituals—of which Nightfall and Dayrise were the most important—listened to his people and striven to answer their needs. He had tried to hide his own doubts, yet despite his best efforts, the people had begun to question the old ways. Some said the gods were not real, that Pele would never return to the island to reclaim her lost children. A growing number said the only true power was the people’s own, and that no ancient system should dictate to them. Such ideas weren’t new—Oporto himself had faced opposition, as had Custodians through the centuries—but never before had a Custodian failed to perform Nightfall. Manuel knew the vital importance of the ritual, of Maintenance, for the island’s continued well-being, but he did not know how to impress it on those who saw Maintenance merely as superstition.

“Manny?” came a soft voice behind him, and his muscles tensed. He didn’t answer, but listened to the sound of sandals on the path, the swish of crimson cloth. A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, then looked up at Hoku, unable to keep a stab of resentment from his eyes.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “May I join you?”

“Shouldn’t you be at the celebration?” he said bitterly, hating himself as the words left him, for of all the people on the island, Hoku was the one he least wished to hurt.

She gave him the fleeting smile that always made his pulse a beat little faster; Hoku, heart’s friend and gentle leader, daughter of Governors, descendent of Guests as shown by the reddish sheen of her hair. Though most everyone on the island was of mixed blood, the Governor’s line still bore the distinctive features of Oporto’s heritage. The Council were children of Guests also, while Manuel’s night-black hair proclaimed his descent from Staff. The two groups—Guests and Staff—had shared the governance of the island since the time of Separation; their children ruled after them and kept their names alive, each following his or her parent’s path. Dancers and technicians fulfilled their birthrights, Hoku performed her function, and Manuel, until today, had performed his.

Hoku sat beside him on the bench, her hand still touching him, gently making circles on his shoulder. A tiny shudder went through him, despair mingled with release of the tension knotting his back.

“It isn’t you, Manny,” she said, bringing both hands to his shoulders. “I swear it isn’t. You’ve done everything you should. We have simply outgrown the need for night. Like you always said, these rituals are just symbolic—”

“Night is not just a symbol!” said Manuel, turning to face her. “Night is the time of rest, of replenishment—”

“On Earth, yes. In primitive societies, yes,” said Hoku, “but we’re beyond that. For centuries people have worked through the night—on Luna, on the stations, even on Earth—and still lived happy lives. There’s no need for us to huddle in darkness half the day when the sun’s light is available to us all the time.”

“If there hadn’t been a need for Night, Oporto wouldn’t have built the Focus,” said Manuel. “He wouldn’t have created Nightfall.”

“He made Nightfall for the Guests from Earth, so they would feel at home,” said Hoku. “And as for the Focus, we control the flow of light, it doesn’t control us!”

Her eyes were beautiful, full of righteousness and something else—something dangerously like pity—that stung him and made him turn away.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” he said.

“No,” she agreed softly. They sat in silence for a moment, Manuel acutely aware of the warmth of her hands on his back. He had loved her from childhood, wanted her from youth, but the Custodian and the Governor were counterparts, working together from a distance, living at opposite ends of the island, close and at the same time standing apart. Never since the island’s creation had a Custodian and a Governor joined. It was thought that such an alliance would threaten the balance of power.

Manuel glanced at Hoku. Perhaps she was right. Oporto’s people were enlightened; perhaps endless day would enrich their lives, and it was only his selfish love of starlight that made him long for the night. If so, then the skeptics who denounced Maintenance as superstitious nonsense were justified, and the Custodian’s function was meaningless.

Except it wasn’t meaningless. It was necessary. Beneath the rituals were the foundations of the island’s vitality.

Rising abruptly, Manuel paced a few steps away. “I wish to address the Council,” he said.

“They won’t change their minds,” said Hoku.

“It is not for the Council to interpret the Manuals,” said the Custodian formally. “Their meaning requires study—years of study—for which I have been trained and the Council has not. It is my duty to advise them.” He turned to face the Governor and saw a sadness in her eyes; his words had built a wall between them.

Hoku sighed and stood. “Very well. I will inform the Council of your wish. You may address the next meeting.”

He nodded silent agreement, gazing at her with an inner ache that was all too familiar. She raised a hand to her heart in the gesture of family-love, gave him a sad little smile and turned away, her sandals whispering on the path, red robe flashing through the leaves as she left him in the sharp light of day.

oOo

Lehua came for Dayrise, and Manuel was both glad and sorry. He had not spoken to her since before the last Night. Hoping to resolve the conflict, hoping he could make the Council see his viewpoint, he had gone to their meetings and reminded them of Oporto’s word, which threatened dire consequences if the people failed to perform proper maintenance. His words had disappeared like raindrops into a lake; the Council would not be convinced. His failure to reach them weighed on his spirits, and though it pleased him to see Lehua among the sparse group gathered in the Grove of Malamalama for Dayrise, he did not look forward to speaking with her.

There were only a handful of dancers this morning, and the flowers they wore were a bit brown at the edges. One musician beat out the Dayrise dance on the ipu, and Manuel chanted words of joy without much enthusiasm. It was hard praising the return of light when Malamalama was already shining brightly. He finished the song, moved to the Focus where the Council’s Watcher stood silent guard and pantomimed shifting the great lever upward, then turned to watch the worshippers drift away. Lehua waited for him by his house, the whiteness of her hair as it brushed her shoulders making her cotton Maintenance garb seem dim.

Lehua, Chief Technician of Moku Wina, mother of Lehua and Manuel, was a grand old dame, stout as a nut and just as tough. No one cared to cross her. Manuel wished he had inherited some of her tenacity; no doubt he would have dealt better with the Council if he had. He remembered her strong hands around his waist, lifting him up to a Maintenance shaft for the first glimpse of the systems that were his heritage. The hands were gnarled now but still strong, and she held them out to him with a smile.

“You look tired, Manny,” she said.

“It’s hard to sleep. Come inside, share my breakfast.”

Manuel held the curtain aside for his mother and followed her into his house. It was dark; he had formed the habit of keeping the windows covered. He pushed aside a curtain to let some light in, and brought cushions and fruit to Lehua.

“We haven’t seen you in Operations lately,” she said as she settled herself.

“I’ve been busy,” said Manuel, cutting slices from a ripe mango. He handed her a piece and ate one himself, let its musky sweetness fade on his tongue. “You would send for me if there was any problem.”

Lehua bit into a date and chewed slowly. “Have you been down to the Hotel?”

“Not since the last Council meeting.”

“What has kept you so busy, then?”

Manuel laid down the knife and wiped the stickiness from his hands with a napkin. “I’ve been—searching.”

“For?”

“A way to make the Council hear me. A way to...”

“To believe in what you are doing?”

Lehua’s voice was gentle, but the words cut. Manuel had never been able to hide his true feelings from her, but she had not said a word about it ever before. Always loving, always accepting, Lehua. Now even she saw the danger that lay in his failure. He could not look into her eyes.

“What would my father have done?” he muttered.

“Your father never faced this kind of challenge.”

“You mean the Council.”

“I mean the doubt.”

He straightened and looked at her, and the pity in her eyes was worse than all the rest. Manuel hid his face in his hands, but the smell of mango clung to them, inescapable as the daylight. He got up and went to the window. Outside children were playing tag in the ceremonial clearing, something that would never have happened when he was young. The place had lost its holiness, or the people had lost their sense of it. Or perhaps it had never been holy.

“Why did Manuel III make Maintenance into ritual?” he asked angrily.

“You know why,” said Lehua. “The people were losing interest, and he feared the procedures would be forgotten. He set them to music and dance in order to preserve them.”

“He made them a religion, and now we may lose them altogether!”

“Merely because you lack faith? No, Manny. The island is more important than your personal crises.”

The words sobered him like a slap in the face. He turned to his mother, who sat quietly watching him.

“It seems hopeless, I know,” she said. “But you will find a solution.”

“You believe that?”

“I know it. These are good dates.” She leaned forward, helping herself to another. “Do you remember Hoku’s woman-day?”

Caught off guard, Manuel blinked. “Yes—”

“She gave you her ti lei. All the boys on the island were courting her, and she gave it to you. I see you still have it,” she said, gesturing to where the dried loop of twisted ti leaves hung from the wall above his bed.

“I don’t think—”

“She loves you, Manny. Why don’t you marry her?”

“The Governor and the Custodian can’t marry,” said Manuel, more sharply than he’d meant to.

“Can’t? I never heard that. You young people place too much importance on your functions.”

“You were just telling me my function is more important than my beliefs!”

“Well, that’s true,” she said placidly, reaching for another date.

Frustrated, Manuel began to pace, the woven mats beneath his feet creaking softly. “How can I go on lying to the people I’m supposed to serve?” he demanded. “It’s hypocrisy!”

“Maintenance is not a lie, Manuel. You know that.”

“But it’s all tangled up in mythology! How can I expect the people to believe what I don’t believe myself?”

“They don’t need to believe. They need to have faith.” Lehua got up and walked to the window, where she stood watching the children outside with a soft smile. “They need to know in their hearts that they aren’t alone, that there’s a whole universe beyond the island,” she said.

“What if we are alone?” asked Manuel.

“Why do you still do the Communications ritual, Manuel?” asked Lehua. “We haven’t had a signal from Earth in four hundred years.”

“That doesn’t mean we’ll never get one.”

Lehua’s smile widened. “Exactly. You know we might get a signal someday. You know we are not alone. You don’t believe it, you know it.” She turned from the window and reached out a hand to comfort him, a gesture that sent him back to boyhood. Manuel came to her and sighed as her strong arms enfolded him.

“That’s what faith is, Manny,” she said into his ear. “It’s knowing. Believing is worrying that something might not be true; faith is knowing it’s true even if you can’t see it. You’ve got faith, my son. You just have to decide in what.”

Manuel gave an exasperated laugh. “Any suggestions?”

“Yourself?” Lehua leaned back to smile at him, then patted his shoulder and started toward the door. “I’d better get over to Operations. Akamu and Keoni keep arguing about when to reschedule rainfall.”

“Lehua—”

She stopped, and Manuel caught her hands in his, squeezing tight. “Thank you,” he said. “I hope your faith in me isn’t misplaced.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You’re Manuel.”

“It’s just a name, Mother.”

“Is it?” Lehua’s hand pulled back the curtain over the door. Light spilled in, framing her so he couldn’t see her face, setting her hair aglow. “You know, they say a Manuel once saved the Earth,” she said.

He could hear the smile in her voice, and smiled back as he watched her walk down the path to the clearing. She patted a child’s head, gestured her respect to the four shrines, and disappeared into the trees.

Manuel turned back to his empty house. The uneaten fruit lay on its plate among the cushions. He walked past it to his bed and took down the ti lei from the wall, imagining its making years before, Hoku’s pretty hands folding and twisting the long ti leaves into a supple, glistening rope on the morning of her womanhood. He remembered the glow in her face as she had proudly danced alone that day, the ti lei gleaming between her small breasts, and the voices of dozens of boys begging for the gift. And he remembered his feeling of silent triumph as she had tossed it into his hands.

The lei was dry and brittle now, lifeless, faded with age. He wondered if the same thing had happened to their love. It was not a trivial question. They both needed successors. Adoption was a last resort for those who truly could not have their own children; it was everyone’s duty to pass on genetic heritage as well as function. Perhaps Lehua was right, and it didn’t matter that a Governor and a Custodian had never married.

He raised the lei to slip it over his head, but it had dried too narrow, hanging on its peg, and he didn’t want to break it. Such a fragile thing now, though it had once been strong enough to bind a man’s hands. He hated what had happened to it, just as he hated the change the Council had imposed. Sometimes he even felt he hated Malamalama, source of all blessings.

Bad thoughts. Manuel shook his head to get rid of them, but he knew they would not go away. He was angry, he realized, not just at the Council but at Hoku personally, for standing against him. She had chosen to oppose him, and none of his arguments or entreaties seemed to move her.

He reached up to hang the lei back on its peg. Its faded green was only a little darker than the grasses of the wall. In time, it would blend in completely. Manuel wondered if he would someday forget it was there.

oOo

“You must check the systems again,” said Councilor Haveland, fanning himself vigorously in the heat of the Council Chamber. “There is clearly a malfunction.”

“There is no malfunction,” said Manuel. “All environmental systems are operating at peak capacity—”

“Nonsense!” said Councilor Gary, wiping moisture from his brow with a fine kerchief edged in Councilor’s yellow. “If the systems were functioning properly the island wouldn’t be three degrees hotter than normal!”

Manuel’s fist tightened around a handful of his robe and forced himself to reply calmly. “It is the increased demand that is causing problems. Continual day is placing a strain on our cooling systems—”

“Then increase their power,” said Councilor Petra. “We have the light, let’s use it!”

“It’s not quite that simple...” Manuel began.

“Manuel, we understand your wish to make a point,” said Councilor Haveland testily, “but you’ve made it. The island needs its Custodian to keep the systems in order. You and your descendants will continue to have a place of honor. Now fulfill your function—get the island back to normal!”

“The island can’t be normal without Night!” said Manuel, his hands emphasizing his statement with the gesture meaning “night.”

“Do the Manuals say night is necessary?” asked Gary.

Manuel clenched his teeth. He’d been expecting that question; he’d spent hours searching the Manuals for just such a reference, hoping to use it in support of his arguments, but he’d found none. The Manuals were written by the Oporto and the Investors, children of Earth, who took night for granted.

“Not in so many words,” he said, “but references to nighttime functions make it clear—”

“I know of no functions that cannot be as easily performed in day,” said Gary, stifling a yawn.

“The advantages of daylight outweigh the difficulties,” said Petra. “We are increasing our quality of life. With continual work shifts we have more space for our workers, we can produce more food and allow people to have more children—”

“All of which will increase the demand on our physical systems,” said Manuel, “and they’re already overburdened!”

“Manuel,” said Hoku, who had been silently observing the discussion, “is it possible to increase power to the physical systems?”

Manuel turned to her, frustrated by her neutral mask. “Yes, but—”

“There!” said Gary in triumph. “He admits it! I move the Council require the Custodian to increase power!”

“We can’t maintain an increase indefinitely!” said Manuel, but his protest was lost in a chorus of agreement from the Councilors.

“So ruled,” said Hoku, her voice putting an end to the clamor. “Manuel, you have the Council’s instructions.” Her eyes were hard, and Manuel swallowed angrily, then turned and left the chamber without another word.

Outside the Hotel the air was oppressive; hot and damp, as if the island had been doused in the steam from a battle between Pele and her sister Hi’iaka. A slight stink of rotting vegetation made Manuel frown. He stripped off his robe, under which he wore Maintenance garb—light, close-fitting cotton for the sacred work of Holding Up The World—but even this thin clothing seemed too much in the heat of the endless day. Manuel glanced at the nearby pole of Malamalama, terminating in the Civic Plaza, exactly opposite to the Grove of Malamalama. Across the plaza was the Governor’s house, flanked by ti trees and stately palms. Oporto himself had once lived there. Now it was Hoku’s.

Feeling a sudden tightness in his throat, Manuel turned away and started back toward Operations, on his side of the island. He jogged most of the way back, passing fields of flourishing new crops and others that seemed pale and withered. Workers looked up at him, some with weary eyes; he was not the only one having trouble sleeping in the constant light. Feeling helpless against their misery, he jogged on past the fields and between flowering shrubs that had dropped their blooms, strewing the path underfoot with flashes of faded color.

Arriving at Operations with a sheen of dampness on his skin, Manuel slowed to a walk and wiped at his face with his robe. He would need a fresh one for Nightfall, and wondered how much time he had before the ceremony. It annoyed him, having to check. Ordinarily he would have known by instinct how many hours of light were left, but he couldn’t count them now, no matter how closely he shuttered his rooms against the incessant daylight.

He strode into Operations with the robe slung over one shoulder and headed for the control room, where he found a cluster of technicians gathered. “What’s the status, Lehua?” he said, joining them.

Lehua glanced up from her console, grimacing as she wiped perspiration from her face with a brown hand. On the screens around her, frantic images conveyed stress on the island’s systems.

“We’re at maximum on environmental control,” said Lehua. “Power use is up thirty percent, ambient humidity up eighteen percent, water use up seven percent. And the temperature’s still rising,” she added unnecessarily.

Manuel leaned toward the screen, knowing what he would see. Though the Council blamed the island’s woes on system failure he knew there were no malfunctions. He and his technicians had been searching the complex environmental systems for days—even for nights, though he disliked putting his staff on the continual shifts that the Council promoted—trying to find a problem to correct, but there were none.

The Custodian rubbed his sweating chin, thinking of Oporto’s warning to his children of the consequences of failing to perform Maintenance: crops withering, lakes drying, fighting among the people. He had not thought such plagues would actually occur, yet without doubt they were beginning, and only weeks after the Council had first denied his pleas to reinstate night.

“What shall we do, Manuel?” asked Kaleo, a young tech whose dark eyes were tense with worry.

Manuel glanced at Lehua. “I’ve been given orders by the Council,” he said. “We must make a change.”

He gathered the technicians into a circle and led the chants of purification that preceded all major Maintenance functions. Feeling Lehua’s eyes on him, he hurried through the song, his hands weaving the air in the gestures of blessing. Then he looked up at Lehua. “Increase power to environmental systems by ten percent,” he said.

One of the techs took a sharp breath. Lehua moved toward her console, pausing to look back. “We’ll be drawing on reserves,” she said.

Manuel nodded. “I’ll inform the Governor,” he said, glancing at the screen. “After Nightfall.”

He stepped back, breaking the circle, and as he glanced at them the techs avoided his gaze. Their silence followed him away down the hall. Few people paid any attention to the Nightfall and Dayrise rituals any more; even his own technicians had lost faith. Often as not he performed the ceremonies alone, but he did so without fail. He was Manuel. If he stopped performing the rituals, he would cease to be Manuel.

As he strode down the corridor he heard the surge of new power into the environmental control system, sensed the change of air pressure as fans picked up speed, felt a breath of coolness as he passed beneath a vent. Welcome as it was to his body, the change only increased his anxiety, for now the physical plant was supplementing the fire of Malamalama with stored light from the great power cells. When their reserves ran out, the island would have no other source to meet its demands.

He went to his house and permitted himself the luxury of a shower. The water was lukewarm, slightly stale. Donning a fresh green robe and his ceremonial headdress, he went out to the Grove of Malamalama and found the clearing empty. No dancers, no singers, no drummers. The only person in sight was the Council’s Watcher, standing on the dais between him and the Focus. With a sigh Manuel walked to his place at the foot of the steps, and stood alone in the silence.

Closing his eyes, he listened to his own breathing and the distant sounds of activity muffled by the woods. He could almost imagine a miracle, a crowd of followers waiting breathlessly for him to lead the ceremony. He laughed at himself; easy with eyes closed. Easy to mumble incantations and trust in omnipotent gods to take care of you, but he believed—no, he knew—that Moku Wina’s people were their own caretakers, and he was responsible for seeing it was done.

Manuel opened his eyes and stared at the shielded pole that marked Malamalama’s terminus. Above where the shielding stopped, at a level distant enough not to damage the eyes, the axis gleamed with brilliant daylight. Malamalama, source of all blessings, was after all just a machine.

Sometimes he thought of going through the Manuals and removing all reference to ritual and worship, but when he tried to picture himself performing the functions of Maintenance without the gestures of blessing and reverence, it felt wrong. He was his father’s son. He had spent his life training to perform the rituals of Moku Wina’s heritage. His feelings, even the Council’s decision, didn’t matter. Maintenance must be performed.

In a voice barely above a whisper he began the chant to Pele. He did not believe she was creator of Moku Wina, or protector of Oporto’s people. He remembered arguing with his father over the dedication to Pele. His father had told him it didn’t matter what he thought; Pele must be honored because that was part of the ritual, part of Maintenance.

He danced alone, chanting softly, hands flowing through the air and his bare feet gripping the soft earth of the island. He danced not for Pele, but for his father. He followed the dedication with the Nightfall dance, then in silence he performed Calibration, his hands cutting knife-like through beams of light. One of the mirrors was slightly off-focus, and he sent a command signal to its driver to adjust. Every bit of light was needed now.

Finally he shut off the Calibration light, and ascended the dais to stand before the Focus. He stared at the lever, carved with symbols no one believed in any more.

“Manuel,” said the Watcher, startling him. It was Puna, the woman who had first been posted on guard over the Focus.

“Yes?”

To his surprise she stepped aside. “I think you were right,” she said, her eyes bright with worried tears. “The Council shouldn’t have stopped Nightfall. Please complete the ceremony.”

Manuel caught his breath, and reached out his hand shivering with an instant’s joy at the thought of shifting the lever and plunging the island into Night. Instead he grasped the Watcher’s shoulder. “Thank you, Puna,” he said, “but the Council would see it as an act of war. There must be a better way to bring back the night.”

“How?” asked Puna.

It was a question that had filled him with despair for many days. “Pray,” he said helplessly. “Pray for guidance.” It was the best answer he had, and it was not enough. Feeling defeated, he turned away to descend the steps.

“May I pray with you, Manuel?” Puna asked.

Surprised, Manuel stopped halfway down the steps and looked back at the Watcher. Her eyes pleaded, and Manuel returned and took her hands, then began the chant he thought she was most likely to know; a chant to Pele, a simple song, one of the first learned by every child on the island. Puna sang with him, stumbling over some of the words, but when the chant was finished she smiled.

“Thank you, Manuel,” she said, looking up at him shyly. “I would like to sing with you again.”

Touched, Manuel nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll sing again.”

“Thank you,” she said as he stepped away. “Thank you, Manuel!” Puna’s voice followed him through the clearing and into his home. As the curtain fell closed behind him he suddenly realized he’d been doing everything wrong. He had been working alone—shutting himself away in solitary darkness, shielding his technicians from responsibility, trying to fight the Council singlehandedly—when what he needed was to add the people’s voices to his. It was not his faith that mattered, but theirs.

Even if Pele was just a symbol, she stood for Maintenance, and he knew beyond doubting that Maintenance was necessary. Night was necessary too, and there were others who wanted its return. If he could win back the people’s support, the Council would not be able to ignore him. How many days in the unending day he had wasted! Tossing his headdress onto the bed, he caught his long robe in one hand, went back outside, and began to run.

The first people he encountered were field workers, tending new crops. “Nightfall has passed,” he told them. One or two sneered, but he ignored them. “I know your work shift kept you from attending the ceremony. I came to offer a prayer for those who wish to join me.”

They stared silently at him, and Manuel could feel the heat rising to his face. “Maybe some of you miss the Night, as I do,” he said. “Maybe you would like to have it back.”

“You won’t get it back,” said a worker, turning away.

“Maybe not,” said Manuel, “but I will pray anyway.”

The workers looked at each other, then one put aside her shovel and came to him. Others followed, and Manuel led them in the same children’s chant he had sung with Puna. “We’ll sing again at Nightfall tomorrow,” he said. “Everyone is welcome.”

Moving on, he made the same offer to everyone he found awake, Staff and Guests, at work or at play. Some ignored him but many did not, and each time he joined hands with a new circle and began to chant, he felt the strength of the people flowing through him. He walked all through the hours of night, returning to the clearing for Dayrise. When he reached it he found a small crowd of people waiting for him, many of those he’d sung with in the last few hours. Among them were a dozen or more dancers, decked in wreaths of fern and flower woven by their own hands, and musicians enough to perform the Dayrise chants. Manuel led the ceremony, then sang the children’s chant again with the people and sent them into the day with blessings while he continued his mission.

He lost track of time as he walked all the paths of the island, seeking to sing with as many of its two thousand people as he could persuade to join him. He surprised his technicians by leading them in a chant of celebration he had not sung since the beginning of endless daylight, and laughed inside at their astonishment. They must think he had gone mad, and perhaps he had, but at least he was doing something.

His legs and feet were aching with weariness by the time his wanderings brought him to the Council Chamber. It was empty; the Councilors were busy elsewhere, and he stood in the Chamber’s center and chanted a song praising Night while the Watchers at the doorway stared. Then he went outside and crossed the plaza to the Governor’s house.

“Hoku,” he called, standing outside her window, swaying a little with weariness. “Hoku, come sing with me.” He received no answer, and with a laugh he sat beneath her window. He plucked a leaf from a ti tree nearby and tore it into strips, fingers clumsy as he twisted them together, one end held between his toes and the pungent juice making his hands sticky. He began to sing, not a chant this time, but a song of love, a courting song. He had sung it softly to himself a thousand times, alone in the darkness of his room, with Hoku’s face shining in his imagination. Now he sang it out loud, heedless of who might hear, his hands caressing the air now and then before returning to the rope-weaving. Manuel had gone mad, the people would say. It might be true, but if so it had happened long ago.

As he sang of starlight on the island’s waters he became aware he was not alone. He kept his eyes on the twist of leaves in his hands and tied its ends together as he finished the song, then turned to see Hoku herself, in Governor’s red, with the Council behind her.

“Manuel,” she said in a voice that matched the sadness of her frown, “what are you doing?”

Rising to his feet, Manuel held out the bracelet he had made. “This is for you,” he said.

Hoku’s hand came up to take the circle of dark, glossy green. As she looked up at him a flash of regret replaced the frown, and all his anger melted.

“Come sing with me, Hoku,” he said softly, taking her hand. “We haven’t sung together since we were children. Analani e—remember?”

“Manuel, you are not yourself. You need some rest—”

“We all need some rest,” said Manuel, laughing. “That’s what I’ve been telling you! Never mind, come and sing! All of you, come sing!” He beckoned to the Council as he led Hoku by the hand down the path toward the far pole and the Grove of Malamalama. They followed, probably with the idea of preventing him from doing anything they disapproved. It didn’t matter to Manuel. He squeezed Hoku’s hand as she walked beside him on the path.

“I love you, Hoku. I don’t think I’ve told you that in years,” he said softly. “It’s more true now than ever.”

Hoku didn’t answer, but neither did she pull her hand away. She walked on beside him, gazing at the path beneath their feet, the bracelet in her free hand. They crossed the waterbelt on Manuel’s favorite bridge, and long before they reached the Grove they began passing through a great crowd, hundreds of people, more than Manuel remembered seeing all together in many years. The people reached out their hands to him as he passed, and he touched their fingers with his own. When he reached the ceremonial clearing he led Hoku up to the steps before the Focus, with the Councilors close behind. The voices of the people filled the clearing, some questioning, some cheering Manuel.

He smiled, then held his hands up for silence. “People of Moku Wina,” he said aloud, smiling, “many of you have sung with me today, and my heart is filled with gladness. Sing again with me now.”

He led the same song—the children’s chant to Pele—a song with no significance toward day or night. It was the voices chanting together, the hundreds of hands moving in unison, that mattered. He heard Hoku’s voice join the others, and saw her lovely hands rise in gestures of happiness and love, the bracelet of ti leaves circling one slender wrist. At the end of the chant the people cheered, and the ipus began to play the rhythms of the Nightfall dance. Voices from the woods joined Manuel’s in the chanting; he saw the hands of the people echoing the dance. Those who didn’t know the song chanted “Po, Po”—calling for Night—and kept up the chant while he performed the dance of Calibration. The voices rose higher as he approached the Focus. The Council clustered on the dais, and he faced them, smiling, with open arms.

“Councilors,” he said, “you honor your people with your presence at the Nightfall ritual.” He saw Councilor Haveland ready to speak, and continued. “I thank you for what you have taught us in the time since the last Night. You have shown us what we can accomplish by using all of Malamalama’s blessings. That is a good thing, but now we are using more light than Malamalama can give us. Now we are using the reserve power from our storage cells. The island needs to sleep, just as we need to sleep.”

A roar of agreement went up from the crowd, so strong it surprised Manuel. He glanced at the people, then at the Councilors, who looked uncomfortable. Manuel went on. “You have given us the freedom to work through the hours of Night. Now I ask you to give us the freedom to rest. Can we not offer our people both choices?”

Hoku was frowning slightly. “What do you propose, Manuel?” she asked.

“Change is a good thing, as you have taught me,” said Manuel. “On Earth the days change in length. I propose a new system that will allow us to have longer days some of the time and longer Nights some of the time, as on Earth. Then we can still achieve more without exhausting our light completely.”

The Councilors exchanged glances. “We must discuss this,” said Councilor Gary.

Manuel nodded. “I will bring a plan to you tomorrow,” he said. “My staff and I will determine the most efficient use of the energy at our disposal.”

“Agreed,” said Hoku, glancing at the Councilors. “In the meantime—”

“In the meantime,” said Manuel, lowering his voice so that only the Councilors would hear, “we’re depleting our reserves to run the environmental control systems. Let us have a Night to allow them to recover. You can call it a holiday if you like.”

He watched their faces anxiously. The Councilors did not look pleased. “Shall I ask the people what they wish?” he asked softly.

Hoku glanced at him with sharp amusement. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said. “Councilors, the Custodian’s words make sense. Any opposed to declaring a holiday?” When none spoke, she turned to the waiting people and raised her arms. “People of Moku Wina, your Custodian has made a wise suggestion. The Council will meet tomorrow to review a new plan for the use of Malamalama’s blessings. In celebration of this, we declare a holiday from now until Dayrise. Let torches be lit to honor Pele, and let Night fill the island so that the torches can be seen by all!”

A cheer broke from the crowd, and accompanied by the roaring of drums, Manuel stepped up to the Focus, placed his hands on the ornate lever, and shifted it downward.

Darkness surrounded him, a black so deep he felt an instant’s primal fear of blindness. Then the light of stars penetrated the viewbays, and the cheering rose higher as torches were kindled and began to dance through the woods, scattering away from the clearing. Manuel stood gazing at the stars for a moment, then turned away from the Focus.

His eyes were still adjusting, but he knew the shadowed figure standing still before him was Hoku. He smiled at her through the Night. “Well said, Governor. You are very good at your function.”

“And you are good at yours,” said Hoku. “This will be a good change, I think.”

Manuel could see Hoku’s hand, pale against the shadows of her robe. He reached out to take it, and led her slowly away from the others, down the steps to the clearing. “I have another change to propose,” he said. “Won’t you walk with me by the water?”

oOo

“Emancipation” first appeared in The Williamson Effect, an anthology tribute to New Mexico science fiction author Jack Williamson. Jack recently passed away, and is deeply missed. New Mexico SF fans and writers alike adored him for his brilliance, his good humor, and his unfailing kindness.

oOo

Pati Nagle was born and raised in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Cicada, Cricket, and in various anthologies, including collections honoring New Mexico writers Jack Williamson and Roger Zelazny. She is a Writers of the Future finalist and finalist for the New Mexico Press Women’s Zia Award. Her short story “Coyote Ugly” received an honorable mention in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and was honored as a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Award. Her latest novel is The Betrayal, released in 2009 by Del Rey Books. She still lives in the mountains in New Mexico, with her husband and two furry feline muses. Her web site can be found at http://patinagle.com The Betrayal—an aelven fantasy—is available for Kindle from Del Rey Books http://aelven.com/thebetrayal.html .

Rocket Boy On Call . . . by Pati Nagle

The last message he’d received from GGL was tagged “urgent,” so he hadn’t taken time to clean up, but as Sonja glanced up from her desk he wondered if it was a mistake to report fresh out of the cockpit. She looked so righteous in her pristine white business uni with turquoise accents, he felt downright slimy.

Her eyes were glassy until she shifted focus to him; then her gaze flicked down and up, taking in the full length of him. He pulled back the hood of his flexsuit and ran a hand over the short, unwashed stubble on his scalp.

“Tasha said ASAP,” he said, trying hard not to stare. Long-boned, with just enough curves, and a Scandinavian complexion made more pale by living in a shielded environment, Sonja woke the hunger in his long-isolated body.

“She had to take a call. Finish your report?”

He handed her a data chip, and she fed it to her desk. Her eyes went distant again.

He glanced around the compartment, which was amazingly stark given its size. Though only Sonja was here at the moment, she shared the workspace with her two partners—both equally hot—and he knew it served them not only as a business office but as a research lab. He wondered if they had a daily service come in to keep it this clean.

Sonja nodded a couple of times as she scanned his report, then ran her hands over a virtual keypad. “There you go. Thanks for a job well done.”

“My pleasure.” He verified the transfer of credit to his account, and sent back a receipt.

“Ready for the next assignment?”

He stifled a sigh. He was tired and sore from chasing down the pirates that had been siphoning bandwidth from GGL’s client. The fight had been quick but exhausting. It wasn’t just his ship that needed a recharge.

“What is it?” he said.

Sonja worked her keypad again, then took the fresh chip her desk spat out and handed it to him. “You’re to track down a lost colony. Here are the specs.”

“Last known location?”

“All in there, along with projections of the most likely trajectories. It won’t be easy; last contact was over a century ago.”

He whistled. “Talk about cold.”

Sonja shrugged. “It’s an inheritance claim, and the courts are demanding proof of demise. Give it your best shot. You’ll be paid for your time, with a nice bonus if you find them.”

He slid the chip into his cuffband. “Okay if I start tomorrow?”

Sonja raised an eyebrow, as if surprised he would need any down-time. “Fine with me. Maeve is off with the client, discussing strategies for bringing the colony in once you find them.”

“Assuming they want to come in.”

“That’s outside our scope.”

“If they’re not in default, they’re not obligated.”

She shrugged. “We’ll deal with that when we get there.”

He nodded, watching the gentle ancillary waves the gesture had raised in her flesh. He had to swallow a sudden mouthful of saliva.

Sonja had turned her attention back to her work, but when he didn’t move to go she glanced up at him after a moment. “Something else?”

Took him a couple of seconds to work up the nerve. “Yeah. How about dinner? My treat.”

That pale eyebrow rose just a fraction. How could a woman be hotter than Sol and colder than a comet’s tail all at once?

“Thanks, but I never mix business with pleasure.”

“What if I turn down the lost colony? Then it’s not business.”

A tiny frown creased her brow. “But that would hardly put me in a mood for pleasure.”

He sighed. “Right. Seeya,” he said, turning to go.

“Joe.”

He stopped. Turned. “It’s Joseph.”

She nodded. “Sorry. Joseph.”

She didn’t say anything more. Her gaze traveled his body, with more curiosity now. A slow smile widened her pink-frosted lips.

“Maybe after you’re done with this contract, and before the next.”

Oh, mama. He grinned, tossing off a salute as he turned and headed out.

“You’re on.”

oOo

Pati Nagle was born and raised in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Cicada, Cricket, and in various anthologies, including collections honoring New Mexico writers Jack Williamson and Roger Zelazny. She is a Writers of the Future finalist and finalist for the New Mexico Press Women’s Zia Award. Her short story “Coyote Ugly” received an honorable mention in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and was honored as a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Award. Her latest novel is The Betrayal, released in 2009 by Del Rey Books. She still lives in the mountains in New Mexico, with her husband and two furry feline muses.

Blindsided by Venus in the House of Mars . . . by Nancy Jane Moore

I’ve almost become Lia Bukanan, so I don’t get too nervous at customs anymore. Still, while waiting for the agent, I did a visualization exercise to slow my pulse. It’s a relaxation trick I learned back on Paneris when I got my DNA tweaked to match my docs. I didn’t do it very long—when you’re hooked up to the stress analyzer, too calm will ding the buzzer as fast as too nervous.

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