The Highest Frontier (42 page)

“So close, so close,” observed the manager admiringly. “You’re welcome again any time, Ms. Ramos Kennedy.”

Jenny shrugged. Her tax was played, done till the next quarter. She moved on, Mary in tow, ignoring the other suits. She wandered back toward the blackjack table, wondering how soon it would be polite to leave.

At the blackjack table, Anouk and Rafael were no longer there. Of course, Anouk would not have stayed long with the low rollers. The higher stakes would be played in a more discreet location. Jenny blinked Anouk’s window.

“Here I am, this way.”
A red pathway stretched ahead of her toybox.

“Mary, this way.” Jenny followed the path where it turned out into a quiet corridor. The Shawnee were gone, the ceiling dark. The pathway turned at a side door. The door was ajar, with light streaming out.

As she pushed the door in, Jenny saw three suited
chicos
at a pool table. She suddenly wondered how she knew that the generic message had actually come from Anouk.

*   *   *

Jenny found herself lying on the floor. Her eyes felt like lead as she forced her lids open. Her dress was torn down to her waist; how had that happened? She could not remember where she was, nor how she’d got there. Catching the pool table, she pulled herself up. Where was everyone? Why were all the windows gone in her toybox?

Mary leaned back against the table, the hood draping from her tilted head. In her arms she held the suited body of a
chico,
his head hanging limp.

At the sight Jenny scrambled up and dragged herself over to look. The unconscious victim was still breathing, rapid shallow breaths. His skin was unnaturally pink.
Mangled amyloid … get him out of the car.
Jenny shook herself. This wasn’t the track; she was indoors. Where?

“Humans are dying,” observed Mary.

“
Dios mío,
what happened?”

“Our stress response.”

“Lay him on the floor,
por favor.
” Where was her EMS button, and all the rest of her windows? Jenny grabbed her purse from the floor and pulled out her scanscope.

The student’s face was pink, his neck flushed. Blood trickled from his scalp where he must have hit something as he fell. The blood was bright scarlet, the opposite of cyanosis. So it wasn’t nitrate poisoning. Yet the
chico
could barely breathe.

On a hunch, Jenny took the cross from around her neck. She snapped it open and took out the cyanide antidote she always carried, like the day before college when the ultra got the squirrel. She pressed the vial to his neck.

“Humans are beautiful,” Mary added. “And poisonous.”

The door opened, and two DIRGs came in. Mound Security. How on earth had she got to the Mound?

33

Dylan sat in his office, not the place he’d hoped to be on a Sunday morning, with the southern light just a glimmer. He’d spent most of Saturday on a campaign retreat with major donors, then read tenure dossiers on postvirtualist Shakespeare and premillenarian theology. His hoped-for cozy evening with Clare had instead been spent visiting crash patients at the Barnside and chemical assault victims from the Mound, and reassuring all their anxious parents on Earth. Soli’s daughter, a week before Soli brought up the debate advance team;
qué lío.
Nonetheless, by morning he’d had the advantage of several hours’ sleep, unlike the two hollow-eyed Ferrari brothers who now faced him.

He’d spent breakfast reviewing the voluminous security report that followed the drug-and-cyanide incident Saturday night. Such incidents were unfortunately less rare than one could wish. In fact, much of this case felt like déjà vu from the year before. It always recalled the painful memory of his own mishap in high school, the time he’d entered the wrong kind of bar and ended up unable to walk for a week. It was the one thing that could make him wonder, just for a moment, whether he’d really done the right thing founding yet another institution with vain aspirations of civilizing the young.

The cyanide, though, was a new twist. Mound Security would release nothing without a court order; “What happens at the Mound, stays at the Mound.” Who had used the cyanide; how and why? Not this year’s “thing,” Dylan hoped. At least with alcohol, the squad had time to get there. One couldn’t always count on one’s rape victim being a first responder. In any event, college security had spent the night grilling various persons of interest, while Nora had compiled a background list of potentially related incidents since term began. Now the two club leaders in their black suits, president Rob LaSalle and pledge educator Rafael Marcaydo Acuña, faced the heavy hitter.

Dylan smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Rob said, “Dr. Chase, we truly regret this whole thing happened. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Everything’s under control—believe me, this won’t happen again.” Behind him, Rafael nodded solemnly.

“Glad to hear all that,” said Dylan. “But please, fill me in on exactly what happened—this rape and cyanide business, the whole story.”

Rob’s eyes flew open. “Nothing actually happened to the
chicas.
We know for sure.”

The medical report had not been released. Yet these guys knew the whole story. “So who else was there?”

Two determined pairs of lips were sealed.

Dylan tapped his finger on the desk. “A witness placed two other gentlemen in the room.”

“That
chica
is
totalmente loca,
everyone knows.”

Rafael looked up in alarm. “What Rob means is, there were so many people about; Mary was confused. It’s the first time she’s been to a big affair.” He gave Dylan an earnest look. “I brought her myself; I should have looked after her better.”

“And your other guest, with the memory blackout.”

Rafael looked genuinely miserable.

Rob sat up straight. “Look, Dr. Chase, with all due respect, you don’t understand about these
chicas.
They come out dressed to kill; those three, you should have seen them, with the clothes like painted on. They drop wads of cash; fifty grand on one number, what’s up with that? They drink too much, and some of the bros get overexcited, they drink too. Stuff happens. Then in the morning, the
chicas
try to blame us—”

Rafael was trying frantically to get a word in. “Sure, like Rob says, stuff happens. But we know these are high-class
chicas.
We’re sorry they got caught up in—”

“Excuse me,” said Dylan, “I’d like to hear more, Rob, about what I don’t understand about
chicas.
”

“That amnesia drug,” Rob went on. “That Ramos
chica
—she’s a med tech. She had a scanscope in her purse. Those techs scope themselves, they all get in trouble.”

Dylan looked him in the eye. The club president didn’t blink. What could one possibly say to this humanoid?

“As for cyanide, that was
not
our doing. Why on earth would we do that?”

“Why, indeed.” On this point, Dylan knew that Nora was inclined to agree; the cyanide came from elsewhere. But still, the truth was unclear. “Your club has some unfortunate history. There was that snuff toyworld for your rush party.”

Rob waved a hand. “That was an old recording, something
chulo
for our nonalcoholic event. Nothing about cyanide.”

“A serious error in judgment,” Rafael added quickly. “For which we accepted our sanction, and counseling, and it will never happen again.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Dylan. “Unfortunately the … cyanide takes the current incident to a higher level. Attempted murder can’t be handled by us alone; it goes to Judge Baynor in Mount Gilead.” He paused to let that sink in. “It would be extremely helpful to provide more of the story.” They wouldn’t, of course. Nobody would tell on those other two bros.

Rob spread his hands. “On behalf of the club, I accept full responsibility. Any sanction should apply to us all.” A clever move; one could hardly expel the club’s entire membership.

“Well then,” said Dylan. “From the college point of view, this serious incident requires loss of this year’s pledge class.”

The two looked relieved. Of course, they’d keep their pledge ties underground for the year.

“Furthermore, this incident demonstrates the need for us all to better understand the viewpoint of
chicas
. You will undertake six weeks of sensitivity training, under twenty-four-hour Monroe surveillance. Since your club takes full responsibility for the incident, we will expect all of you to undertake this training.”

“Monroe? A mental in the head to make us think like
chicas
?” Rob was aghast. “Why would you want us all to have
that
?” With a sudden thought he gave the president a very ugly look.

“Thank you, Dr. Chase,” said Rafael quickly. “What an opportunity. I’m sure we can all benefit from learning more about the kind of high-class
chicas
at college today.”

*   *   *

Jenny had slept fitfully; she kept waking up in a panic, wondering where she was. Being hurt by fellow students was bad enough. Then the security interviews, and the humiliating medical test. Turning into a statistic.

She rose early and ran the shower, over and over, as if she could clean herself out.

In her toybox, the Marilyn face floated like a balloon. Marilyn pursed her lips. “Jenny, remember—it’s not about you. Your assailants will face the judge. You’re still you.”

Jenny did not feel at all like herself. She felt like a used rag. She still could not remember where she’d spent the evening nor who had done what to her. Worst of all, she no longer trusted Anouk. She had closed Anouk’s window, and Rafael’s, and those of every other member of the Ferrari club. Then for good measure, she closed the rest of them, all the students, and all the dumb administrators who kept asking questions. They were all connected—she trusted no one at this place anymore.

“The shower,” Marilyn persisted, out of the void of inner space. “It’s run for an hour.”

Jenny’s fingers were soaked and wrinkled. Still she said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to church? Father Clare needs his flowers.”

“I’m getting out,” Jenny said abruptly. “I’m going to my aunts’.”

“There,” said Marilyn. “That would serve everyone right. Frontera—they all let you down.”

“Sí, verdad.”

Marilyn’s face drifted off, then loomed closer. “You didn’t want a DIRG.”

“Why should I need a DIRG? What good is a place like Frontera, if I need a DIRG?”

“That’s more like it,” Marilyn agreed. “DIRG or no, you’re not the one to blame. So why should you be the one to leave?”

“Why should I care?”

“What was the real reason you didn’t want a DIRG?”

Jenny said nothing.

“You wanted to find out what it’s like to be a real, ordinary person. Ordinary people don’t have DIRGs. And now and then, they get screwed.”

Jenny frowned and turned away, toward the shower wall. But of course, Marilyn was still there.

“Most people feel like they get screwed by politicians.”

“What?”

“Average people—that’s how they feel, all the time.”

“About me? I want to throw out bad politicians.”

“How can you stand up for people, if you can’t stand up for yourself?”

Jenny closed her eyes and ran her hands again through her streaming hair.

“Set an example,” urged Marilyn. “Show them how it’s done.”

Jenny shook her head, the water spinning out. “I don’t know how it’s done. I just don’t want to ever face those
chusma
again.”

“You have to press charges.”

“But they’re still here—I’ll have to see them every day.” They could be anyone, anywhere.

“Practice,” urged Marilyn. “Practice what to say when you see them, anyone who disrespects you. Repeat after me: ‘Scram.’ ‘Beat it.’ ‘Get lost.’”

Jenny half smiled. “Get lost.”

Out of the shower, she got herself to church just in time to set her arrangement of white phalaenopsis at the communion table. If only Tom could be here; but he was busy serving brunch to Orin Crawford’s investment partners. The familiar church service brought her a respite. But as the service closed her eyes flew open. Suddenly she could barely recall the hour gone by. Was she losing it again?

Father Clare came over and laid a hand on her arm. “Jenny, how are you?”

“I’m okay,” she insisted. “Just … fine.”

“Say, I could use more help on my campaign. Could you stop by my office in the morning?”

“All right.” She hurried home to get some extra sleep before the game with Beijing.

Her mother called again. “Jenny,” Soledad sighed. “So dreadful. And you all alone there.”

Her father appeared in Iroquoia, speaking around his pipe.
“Only the Salt Beings cause harm to women.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Soledad assured her. “Our staff will handle everything.” A window opened for the family lawyer.

“Alone among Salt Beings, without your brother.”
Her father’s Iroquois words curled sonorously around his pipe.
“Brother-sister, the most sacred bond.”

“I know, Dad.” She bit her lip. “The Condoling Council—I’ll be there.” During October break, she’d promised she would play Iroquoia.

“We must undertake a Mourning War.”

Her eyes widened. “The Council is enough.” No war for her, even in a toyworld.

“We need a Mourning War. To replace your brother.”

“Only if the Chief Woman rules,” reminded Soledad. “Jenny, we should have known better. You simply must print out your DIRG.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t understand,
hijita.
Real life isn’t Iroquoia. You think DIRGs are for children; but DIRGs are for adults. You are the daughter of two presidential families. Your aunt is the governor of California. There will always be criminals that try to take advantage of such a person.”

“But I don’t want a DIRG.”

“You’ll live with it, like the rest of us.”

“Frontera is my last chance without.”