The Highest Frontier (55 page)

That afternoon, Tharp came with his crew to melt the amyloid. Such a large structure was not to be collapsed at random, lest the material ooze out and mess up other buildings. Ken and Yola made themselves absent, but a large crowd had collected, particularly Red Bulls and Ferraris to hoot and jeer. Recalling Leora’s interest, Jenny had told her; and sure enough she came by, her youngest boy in hand. Jenny looked furtively at Leora, face hidden beneath her bonnet. She was wondering at the past week’s abrupt transformation of the mayor’s revered widow into a woman of scandal. The colonists owned precious little, and nothing could incense them so much as the apparent theft of their precious energy stores.

At Tharp’s brainstream, the battlement melted down, first one corner, then the rest, collapsing into the keep. A loud cheer went up from the motor clubs.

“How can someone just let a sick person play?” Charlie shook his head. “There ought to be a law.”

“There are laws.” President Ramos, Jenny’s grandfather, had set up the taxplayer system. The law forbade anyone to play who’d lost more than half their net worth. But the law applied only on Earth. “Off-world casinos are the loophole.”

He frowned. “What was there before taxplaying, anyhow? How did the government run?”

“They just took your money. Like tithing.”

“Well, that’s no good. At least at roulette, you got a chance.”

One of the drum towers sagged and crumpled. Jenny felt her scalp crawl, reminded of Twin Towers. The tower opposite melted down next. After all the towers, the crenellations slumped into the outer walls. At the very last, nothing was left but a smooth square of amyloid, ready for the next well-off tenant. Jenny stared in vain for a sign that the castle had ever stood there.

Her eye caught a glimpse of something unmelted, sticking up from the amyloid slag. She crept over for a closer look. A puzzle jug, one of those she’d designed and printed herself outside the castle program.

Jenny looked around; no one else seemed to notice. So she reached down to grasp the jug, intending to keep it as a memento. But the jug was stuck fast in the congealed amyloid.
Morias philai paromen
.

46

After Monday morning practice, Jenny stopped at Reagan Hall to “borrow” a pot of reverse control. On her way to Political Ideas, ToyNews reported the new antiterror offensive across the Transantarctic, timed of course to remind the electorate that Centrists were tough on terror. Meanwhile, new details emerged on Sid Shaak’s child pornworld empire. Jenny blinked it off. Her toybox filled with debate news—which celebs were coming, where to get tickets. Clive’s entourage was already filling up Lazza’s hotel; the Begonias went to town following up a rumor that his style staff was freelancing.

Soledad blinked Jenny about tickets. “I can promise you eight seats in the front row,” she said. “We have to be fair; both sides get the same number. Then there’s the press, and the notables.”

“Thanks, eight will do.” Herself and Tom, Anouk and Rafael, Charlie and Priscilla. Ken and Yola wouldn’t come—Ken had posted a picture of Satan saying, “Why pick the
lesser
of two evils?” But Fran and David would appreciate seats.

“Bien,”
said her mother. “All purple?”

“All but one.” Rafael, despite Anouk’s promise to convert him.

“I’ll make sure Jermy’s side includes one of ours.”

At class, Jenny set her potted plant upon the inlaid table, in the middle rather than right next to her. Mary was there as usual, with her hands creeping over the table—hopefully she’d keep quiet, or only say something uninterpretable. Jenny’s hands shook with nerves. When Enrico glanced in her direction, she jumped. Calm down, she told herself. By now, he and Ricky and the rest were accustomed to her carrying one plant or another, so no one took notice. Anyhow, she told herself, the plant’s a dud. At least Anouk would be silenced.

The class began as usual, with Hamilton pacing, reprising Aristotle’s view of various governments, especially kingships and tyrannies. Today was about change—how a government might be destroyed, or not. Amazing how such a hair-raising topic could be made so dry.

The professor turned to face the class, leaning his hands on the table. “So what is the most important way for any government to preserve itself—to prevent change?”

Priscilla raised her hand. She did not wait for permission, as she knew by now Hamilton would never call on her. “Look, Aristotle says that tyrannies are the shortest-lived of all governments. So, duh, if you want to preserve your government, don’t be a tyrant.”

The class was still. Where Hamilton stood, his head leaned near the plant. In fact, all the heads leaned slightly, close together; as if, Jenny thought, they were all flowerheads of one communal organism. Don’t be a tyrant. She found herself thinking: What did that really mean? Despite their short lives, why did the world have so many tyrants and tyrannies? And what did it really take not to be one?

Hamilton was still watching Priscilla, or something beyond Priscilla, Jenny could not tell which. “You know,” he said slowly at last, “there are other philosophers besides Aristotle. One said, ‘He who has done you the most wrong, you must call your greatest teacher.’” He paused reflectively. “The one in this class who does Aristotle the most wrong is Priscilla.” He nodded in her direction. “So, Priscilla—you will lead the rest of the class.” With that, he sat down expectantly.

Priscilla stared. “Me?” She looked around, as if there might be some other Priscilla. But the other students were all watching her. “It’s true, I detest Aristotle,” she admitted. “Aristotle doesn’t care about people, unless they’re rulers. Right up front, he compares women and slaves as different tools for work. And the barbarians, too, are slaves. Then, ‘In every household, the eldest is king.’ Duh, what if Grandpa has Alzheimer’s?

“Anyhow, for the rest of the book, all that counts is whoever rules. Like a chocolate sampler: Which one should I pick to be, a good king, or a tyrant, or an oligarch? Would I pick our Constitution if it were a chocolate in a box? Like, I dunno. But that’s what we’ve got, see?”

She waved a hand. “Democracy is where all the barbarians get to vote—even if the ballot’s radioactive. And the poor vote like they might be rich someday. And the slaves don’t bother.” She stared meaningfully around the table. “Find me that in Aristotle.”

All around the table, the students looked at Priscilla. Then they looked at the professor, who was still listening. Then they looked around at each other.

Enrico reflected, “You know, Aristotle wrote other books besides
Politics
. For extra credit, I’ve been reading
History of the Animals
. ‘We must not recoil with childish aversion from examination of the humblest animals.’ Amazing, don’t you think? Here, Aristotle speaks of hens and cocks, even sponges. ‘Every realm of nature is marvelous.’ He sounds like the Sierra Club. How could he care so much for sponges, yet not for lowly human beings?”

Priscilla leaned back, as if saying, “Don’t ask me.”

Beneath the table shoes scraped on the floor. A couple of students actually took up their books and turned the pages, looking for a passage.

Ricky said, “You know, I wonder what Aristotle really even meant by ‘slave’ or ‘animal.’ These words were used over two thousand years ago. Today, don’t we know that humans are animals? Maybe Aristotle cares about slaves and animals, even though he doesn’t think them human. Even though they don’t vote.”

Priscilla’s eyes widened. “Two thousand years.” She leaned forward, as if struggling with something in her head. “I wonder what people will think of our politics today, two thousand years from now. Will they ask how we treated animals? Or even ultraphytes?”

Scary, thought Jenny. What if ultra were nature’s rulers, two thousand years from now—or sooner?

“Maybe,” said Enrico, “we need to take the things Aristotle gets right, and sift them from the rest. I mean, we’re not children that have to accept as true all the things we’re told.”

“Maybe we can’t help but act like Aristotle’s rulers. So we ought to know how to rule.” Priscilla was shaking her head. “Two thousand years from now—I can’t imagine what they’ll think. I hope they think we were like children beginning to see.”

“When I was a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child…”

“And when I became a man,” said Hamilton quietly, “I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly. If this book is a dim mirror, at least it’s that.” He nodded. “Think of that, during Thursday’s debate.”

The students got up and dispersed for their next class. Only Mary and Jenny remained. Jenny sat still, transfixed.

Hamilton looked straight at her, past the plant. “The class went well today, I thought. I learned something. What did you think?”

Jenny swallowed but said nothing.

“THE REVERSE CONTROL. DID IT WORK?”

Suddenly she wondered: Does wisdom always mean well? Could a person bent on destroying the world find a wise way to do it? What if Satan became wise?

“Excuse me.” She scooped up the plant and hurried out.

*   *   *

Out on Buckeye Trail and throughout the hab, the Weaver DIRGs were now a familiar sight, like an insect infestation out of control. Jenny’s toybox overloaded with window requests; she had to clear it out and restart everything. All this while running to the Life lab to return the plant, before the professor noticed; then running as fast as she could to Anouk.

In Anouk’s sitting room, Jenny flopped down onto the sumak and caught her breath. Anouk shifted from one collapsing Mandelbrot to another. “So? Significant difference?”

“Estupendo.”
Jenny told her how the class went. “But what does it mean? What’s really going on? Is it wisdom or hallucination?”

“It’s your class. What do you think?”

Jenny didn’t know what to think. “What if it fries the brain? Or causes cancer?”

“You can’t get cancer, you have HIV. We students have all the latest protections and sensors,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“We have to find out what the plant really does—what semiochemicals does it make?” She was having second thoughts about the Politics class. “Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe the class was just better than usual.”

“Of course, a single trial means nothing. You must try your other class too.”

Jenny looked up. “Abaynesh? No way. Besides, Tuesday’s not in lab; we’re all in our toyrooms, so it won’t work.”

“Mary shares her toyroom,” Anouk pointed out. “She lets Mary get away with anything.”

Jenny raised her hands. “You talk to Mary—I’m out of it.”

“Very well, I shall.” Anouk blinked. “Someone is looking for you—it’s Tom.”

At Anouk’s door waited Tom, looking agitated. “Your window is gone. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She’d forgotten his window, when she cleared out her box. “I had to restart them all, and I missed.”

They collapsed in each other’s arms.

*   *   *

That evening at the cottage, Tom seemed more like his old self. He sat with Jenny in her old sitting room, where he’d be staying now. They kissed and held each other forever. Jenny put a hand beneath his shirt. “Why don’t you take it off again?”

“You want me
ignudo,
is that it?”

She smiled. “Yes, just like the Sistine ceiling.”

The shirt came off. The blotches remained on his skin, and his arm moved stiffly. Jenny held him close, trying to be careful. Soon they were just skin and skin together. Tom felt her with his hand and brought her to climax.

“What about you, did you get enough?” Jenny gasped.

“For now.” Tom leaned back on his hands, barely visible in the nocturnal glimmer. “Best be careful. You don’t want my genes.”

Jenny brushed his cheek. “My parents didn’t want each other’s genes. That’s why they picked our relatives. Known successful combinations.”

Tom stared. “That’s weird. I mean, it’s not natural.”

“The Iroquois didn’t care about genes. They kidnapped their enemies and married them.”

He thought this over. “I suppose it went the other way too. Colonials went and married a squaw.”

“Gantowisa,”
she corrected. For some reason she thought of Mary Dyer. She wondered what kind of genes Mary had.

47

The next day, the ruling on Jenny’s complaint came down. The complaint was supported in full. All voters should have the choice of a brainstreamed ballot through ToyVote.

But Hamilton, on behalf of the town, accepted only the provisions he’d agreed to before. The rest—the radioactive ink in the courthouse—was appealed to the state supreme court. ToyNews Local played a comment from Judge Baynor: “We’ll have no carpetbaggers voting in our town.” So much for wisdom.

In the meantime, there was Life class in the toyroom, which she now shared with Tom. In the background of the professor, the old baobab tree grew. Abaynesh, true to form, picked up her lecture as if nothing had been missed in her absence. Two more students had transferred to toyHarvard. The last exam had seen no grade above A, and the remaining faces looked grim.

“Today, we begin a new unit.” Abaynesh stood in her toyroom with Mary, who was holding a plant. “So far we have focused on DNA and RNA, the most ancient information molecules of life. Now we deal with a more modern life molecule: protein.”

As the professor went on, Jenny could imagine hearts sinking in the other spliced toyrooms. Charlie and the rest had a stoic determination. They could only be recalling DNA as the helical slide, RNA as the roller coaster, and now protein—What could it be? Nothing good, that was for sure. Only Anouk, the curve breaker, looked serene.

“Proteins are Johnny-come-lately in evolution, a mere three-point-seven billion years old. One can imagine a cell without protein, but not a cell without RNA. Nevertheless, proteins form essential parts of all cells today, so we’re going to—” The professor stopped. For the first time she looked around, at each student in their spliced toyroom. Beside her stood Mary, with her usual expression and tie-dyed shift. The plant in Mary’s hands held up its little spoon leaves. “You know what?” began the professor. “You all look terrified.”