The Highest Frontier (53 page)

“But—” His abrupt response confused her. “What if you get sick?”

The judge shook his head. “Illness knows no party. In the long run, it evens out, doesn’t it? Don’t mean to be unkind, but with so many tourists and all, we make sure only genuine local residents vote for our mayor.”

“So it’s different in November?” President, senator, rep and state rep, everything down to morality officer.

“In November, it’s just the same.”

Something creaked within the combine machinery. Beyond it the rows of stubble swept up into the sky. “Who makes the law?”

“The town council. Your Mr. Vincenzo sits on it.”

“When does the council meet?”

“Next January.”

On the road back, Jenny blinked for her family lawyer.

“The Board of Election has to help,” the lawyer said. “The state provides a client rights advocate. They must bring the ballot to your bedside if necessary.”

“It’s not a ballot. It’s a book with special ink.”

The lawyer’s eyebrows rose. “An open book? File a complaint with the state.”

“The state of Ohio?” That would scarcely win points with the locals. How many of the sick students even wanted to vote? Would Tom want to press the case, or would he get upset again? Jenny thought she’d see how things went, and plan for November.

*   *   *

The lights came up Monday afternoon. Dylan sighed with relief. Only 20 percent of their power came from Earth. Frontera was nearly there, just one step from independence. Their main generator was a massive solarray, the kind Glynnis had helped design: An orbiting complex of solar collectors distributed over a thousand cubic kilometers. There were always one or two knocked out at any time, but they were self-regenerating; and no piece of space debris was big enough to knock out the whole. The prototype of a system that could stabilize Earth’s entire power grid. Of course, building another one would take decades, with an added point on the house edge.

In Dylan’s box, four backlogged windows blinked red. The first red he took was from the frog about his seminar grade; always students first. “Certainly, I understand,” Dylan said with his most winning smile to the
chico
taking a break from the green at St. Andrews. “An understandable oversight in your essay, confusing the two presidents.”

“That’s what I thought, Professor. The coach posts our grade averages—Xiang has A-triple-plus. You know I can’t get into law school without A-triple-plus.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be too sure of that, but I know how you feel.”

“And besides, it was my
novia
’s birthday the week before; I had to go visit her at UCLA.”

“I understand your oversight,” Dylan empathized. “After all, Teddy and Franklin were, shall we say, of the same blood; fifth cousins, in an inbred community. Almost clonal, by today’s standards.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Both statesmen played larger-than-life roles in world politics. And Teddy, like cousin Franklin, pursued social justice through government regulation. The Square Deal led to the New Deal. Forest Conservation, then Soil Conservation. The bully pulpit, and the fireside chat. Republican, and Democrat.” Those twentieth-century purples really stood for something.

“Exactly,” exclaimed the young man in his polo shirt. “I knew you’d take care of my grade.”

“You can be sure I’ll continue to give the matter my utmost consideration. And let’s see your next essay, okay?”

Next red: Nora. “The Ebola students are recovering, but their meds have blown my budget for the year.”

Dylan shook his head. “We can’t go on having Ebola outbreaks twice a semester.”

“Not my department,” she pointed out. “Hepa-Q, yes, that’s our bailiwick. But Ebola is Zari’s department.”

Zari’s desk spliced in as she assisted a teddy with a wooden Chinese puzzle. She hastily put down the puzzle with one leg still extending. “Dylan, we’ve reached the limit: These outbreaks are going up exponentially.”

“So what’s our answer?”

“Babynet,” she said succinctly. “Not the whole system; just the core receiving stations. With Babynet in the mix, no Toynet-based viruses can get through. And a host of other things.”

Dylan drummed his fingers. “Gil won’t like it.”

“It won’t hurt him, he’ll still be the biggest trillionaire. Isn’t it time Gil grew up?”

Zari’s impatience was rare; she must really have reached her limit. “Very well,” he sighed.

“Thanks a bunch, Zari,” added Nora, with considerably more feeling. “Dylan, just so you know, I confronted the two bros from the Monte Carlo incident and convinced them to withdraw from the college.”

“Excellent.” The culprits would be gone; no more court case.

“On the other hand, just so you know, the Kearns-Clark monthly payment bounced.”

Dylan gulped. “Not again.” Two years since the last time; he’d hoped the family had straightened out.

Third red: Helen. “Two faculty are out,” the dean of the faculty told him. “The Brain Arts prof came down with Ebola, probably incubated from here. She’s at Columbia, out for a week. Clare can fill in.”

“Very well.”

“And Sharon canceled class for a week. Said she ‘needs to think.’”

Canceled class—to think? Think about what, if not teaching? Students first—that above all was Frontera’s brand.

“Students complained,” added Helen. Complained at the Life prof’s absence—there was a change. “For now, I set them up with toyHarvard, if that’s okay with you.”

“Good thinking. If it goes beyond a week—”

“It won’t,” Helen assured him. “I do think this colleague merits an extra evaluation this year.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Dylan. Helen always had things in hand.

At last, the ecoengineer. Quade spliced in from his south station by the river, with the bear cub on a leash. A bad example; Dylan would have a word with him, but not now. “We’ve completed a thorough analysis of the castle and moat.”

“And?”

“Some of our chemicals registered positive.” Quade paused. “I’d give a thirty percent chance the ultra was real.”

The two men stared each other down. Thirty percent. Should they melt the castle or not? And if ultra had been there, where else by now?

“You know why South America has so few ultraphytes?” Quade asked.

“Why?”

“Army ants. Army ants love ultra—swarm over ’em, can’t get enough.”

Dylan absorbed this. Then his eyes flew open. “
Ni hablar.
No wolves, no bats, and no army ants.” No ultra either. Unless they were here to stay.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a contact he’d missed. Jenny’s window, with no urgent flag. Still, he shouldn’t have missed a student.

44

Jenny headed out Raccoon Run to vote, along with Priscilla. Anouk accompanied them; although she could not vote, she looked forward to any opportunity to feel superior to
les americains
. Already she wrinkled her nose at the mud clinging to her ballet flats. Jenny and Priscilla wore hiking boots to town. A mosquito landed on her arm; Jenny slapped it, and blinked a complaint to the ecoengineer.

“Homefair just raised a frame for our next house,” Priscilla told her.

“Muy bien.”
Priscilla had become quite a carpenter, no more falls from the roof. “Who’s the homeowner?”

“Leora’s sister. Leora comes from, like, a large family.”

Exasperated, Anouk yanked off her shoe and knocked off some of the mud.

“Come on,” muttered Jenny, “France has farms.”

“You bet,” agreed Priscilla. “Where else do they grow all that café stuff?”

Anouk said, “Our agricultural science is the most advanced in the world.”

Priscilla sent Jenny some text, which she diplomatically ignored.

At the courthouse, the flock of pigeons cooed and scattered as the three students climbed the steps. Inside waited half a dozen colonists in power bands, plus a croupier from the Mound. The croupier waved at Anouk. “
Bonjour, mademoiselle.
We hope to see you again soon.”

The pollworkers were Leora and Frank. One for each party; that would be standard. Before them on the desk rested a book, about the shape of Jenny’s Aristotle book, only larger.

As the man at the head of the line approached, the book was opened to the spot with his name. The man bent over and wrote something in the book, in a bright yellow dye.

“What’s that?” asked Priscilla curiously.

“Uranyl acetate. A microscopy stain.” Jenny recalled uneasily that her handwriting was out of practice. She opened a window for a quick review.

Priscilla wrinkled her nose. “It sounds disgusting.”

At last Jenny’s turn came. “Jennifer Ramos Kennedy.”

Frank opened the book, but could not find it at first amongst the Ks. “Ramos,” Jenny corrected.

Beside the book, Jenny saw an instrument with fluctuating numbers. A radiation dosimeter. Her eyes widened. There by the book was a pen with a bottle of uranyl acetate. A salt of uranium. Her jaw dropped. “Is that … radioactive?”

“It’s depleted,” Frank assured her. But the dosimeter still registered.

Jenny looked back at her friends.

“No way,” exclaimed Priscilla. “Like, my family is cancer prone.”

“Why?” Jenny asked Frank.

“Security,” he explained. “No one can go in with any old ink and change the votes. We monitor the activity of each signature.”

“Unbelievable,” muttered Anouk, probably blinking away to all her Parisian playmates. “
Enfin,
the exposure is not so bad, if you calculate. Just be quick about it.”

“Don’t you have gloves?” Jenny asked.

“Sorry,” Frank apologized. “It goes so quick. Just keep your hands clean.”

Leora nodded, her eyes downcast.
“Gloves are a good idea. We should keep up with the times.”

Holding her breath, Jenny picked up the pen. She carefully traced out the outline of her name. “So where is the ballot?”

“Just write the candidate’s full name next to yours.”

Right there in front of everyone, on the line with all the others. Her face burned. Quickly, she scribbled Father Clare’s first name, though the
C
looked just like the
l
. More carefully she drew the big
F
for his surname. She dropped the pen and wiped her hands on her pants.

Priscilla shook her head. “I can’t even write, much less use that pen. What if I make a smudge, and the radioactivity gets all over?”

“Could a witness help you?” suggested Frank.

“Allow me,” said Anouk. Holding Priscilla’s hand, she completed her name smartly.

Stepping aside, Jenny was already blinking her lawyer’s window. No way would she put up with this in November, no matter what the town thought.

*   *   *

The Toynet Local announced Hamilton’s win. The windows were full of congratulations for the new mayor, the first college professor to run Mount Gilead. The inaugural celebration was announced for Lazza’s new hotel ballroom.

In the morning, Jenny stopped by Father Clare to condole.

“Don’t feel too bad,” he told her.

“But scarcely any students voted,” she blurted. “After all our canvassing.” The Bulls had gone around with their sheets and slogans; then they hadn’t bothered to vote.

“October Break has a Pied Piper effect,” Father Clare observed. “But you know, considering the voters were mostly colonists, it came out much closer than your analysis. Your canvassing must have done some good.”

“That’s true.” Fifty-one to forty-nine, not two to one. She would let Tom know he’d made a difference. “Well, November will be different; everyone will vote. Won’t they? What was it like in oh-four?”

The chaplain hesitated. “Maybe this year will be different, after the debate.”

“
Claro,
that will be an inspiration. But—why should students vote here, when they have to trudge into town and sign in radioactive ink? They could vote for president in Wisconsin.”

“If they own a home there.”

Jenny reddened. The price of socks; she had to remember.

“I guess that’s why Ohio stays the way it is,” he added. “Voters flee.”

“Not this year.” Her chin lifted. “We’re filing a complaint.”

The chaplain grinned. “God doesn’t take sides, but I wish you luck.”

*   *   *

Jenny started compiling her list for the lawyer: the courthouse location, the radioactive ink, above all the open ballot. Now that her terrestrial windows were back, she reviewed the lengthy form at the Ohio Secretary of State.

A window blinked for her; it was Uncle Dylan. “Jenny, I missed your call. Is everything all right? All your connections back?”

“The students couldn’t vote.” She sent him her list.

“Goodness—why didn’t you tell me? Of course, you did try. Well, don’t you worry.” He smiled. “We have to work this out for November. And I’m sure we can, now that we have a professor for mayor.” Mayor indeed; she’d have to see.

Meanwhile, on her Life professor’s window she had found the following note: “Class canceled. Busy thinking.” Wondering what this cryptic message meant, Jenny stopped by the lab.

Outside Reagan Hall stood a group of students carrying signs.

PROFS TORTURE PLANTS.

SAVE PLANTS FROM ALIEN DNA.

NO FRANKENPLANTS.

Pictures showed imaginary plants sprouting ultraphytes. A leaflet texted how the Life professors were putting ultra genes into helpless animals and plants with neurons. Next to the picketers stood an outsized clay-colored urn full of soil, with a student crouching on the soil holding a tormented flowerhead. The crouching student was Kendall.

Jenny looked down at her teammate and smiled. “
Hola.
How was the beach?”

Ken looked grim as death. “What goes on in that lab—you can’t imagine.” No Yola around, Jenny noticed. Yola was a Life major who needed to get her grades up to graduate.

She found Abaynesh in her office, sitting upon her desk, beneath which Meg-El lay curled up asleep. The professor sat, chin in hand, thinking. Around the professor sat pots of her representative plants: the laughing plant, the praying plant, the find-my-mortarboard plant. Jenny cleared her throat. “I’m here to check our experiment.” She added, “Are you okay?”