The Highest Frontier (7 page)

5

Jenny returned with her parents to Wickett Hall. The toy locomotive was just chugging past the alphabet blocks. Jenny’s steps slowed and her throat caught. Soon her parents would leave her here, perched alone like the Somers elephant, while they returned to Earth to cope with ultraphytes, oceans, and mosquitoes.

A crowd of parents and students had gathered, shoelaces pointing in all directions, milling around President Chase. At last he found Jenny’s family. “Soli, dear!
Dee
-lighted to see you.” A hug, and a kiss on both cheeks. To her father, he called out in Mohawk,
“Niyawehkowa katy nonwa onenh skennenji thisayatirhehon.”
Great thanks now you have safely arrived.

“Dylan,” her mother reminded him, “you pulled the same trick at our commencement.” They had graduated together from the top liberal arts college in swing-state Ohio.

“Ah,
recuerdo.
But today, the real hero was Jenny.” Clasping her shoulders, he kissed her forehead; the only family friend tall enough to do that. “You saved the day for us already.”

Jenny smiled and briefly closed her eyes. “The coneflowers were lovely.”

“I knew you’d notice.”

“How’s Fritz?” The president’s own son.

“Fritz left early for Berkeley, plotting to save the seals or something. If he were here, he’d be demanding your first date.”

Soledad sighed. “You dreamed of founding the first college on the high frontier.…”

“A college for all,” Dylan reminded her. “I just endowed two more Chase Scholarships.”

“… with altogether too much wildlife.”

Dylan laughed. “Goodness, my dear, we’re
adultos
. So we risk a nip now and then. It comes with the scenery.”

“Scenery, security, swing state.” Soledad smiled. “That’s how we got the final November debate here—at Frontera!”

Frontera was legally Ohio, Ohio’s high frontier. But a presidential debate—it would be the first in a spacehab.

“Soli, you always think of us.” He clapped Soledad’s shoulder. “And we always think of you. Your acreage is secure. Did you check it out?”

Jenny’s eyes widened. So her parents had bought land in the spacehab. A Centrist thing to do. Were they that pessimistic about Earth? Would they too try to leave? Like the old Cuban saying,
todos se van.

“Jenny,” added Uncle Dylan, “be sure to sign up for my frog seminar. You’ll have to list it first; it fills quickly.” With a wave, he moved on to the next family.

*   *   *

Behind Wickett Hall, the elevator light came on.

“Jenny, there is something I need to say.”
The letters in Jenny’s toybox were so deep blue she could barely see.

“I know, Dad.” She couldn’t say it either. She hugged him, and they held each other a long time.

“Ten minutes till departure,” warned the elevator.

It was her mother’s turn for a hug. “Remember, dear.” Soledad’s voice had fallen, a trifle unsteady. “I know you’ll study hard.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Attend Clare’s service every Sunday.”

“Yes.”

“And join the right garden club.” She emphasized the word “right.”

“Of course, Mama.”

“And tonight, don’t forget the green jello. Anna needs our help.”

“Of course.”

“No,” her father announced flatly, as if to a toyroom. “It’s all wrong.” He flapped his hands nervously. “There should be two of them.”

Her mother’s face paled. “It’s all right, George.” She cradled his head. “Everything is fine. Envision your quiet place.”

Jenny texted,
“I’ve got my housemate, Mary Dyer.”
Wherever she was.
“And my new friend, Anouk.”

“A sister never leaves the longhouse,” her father insisted. “Especially a sister without a brother. A sister must always have a brother, the most sacred bond.”

“George—be appropriate.”

That word “appropriate” caught his ear. The most important of all words, that word meant the difference between free life and the blue room.

Soledad added, “A cool glen of pine trees, the Tree of Peace. You’re walking there right now.
Enjeyeweyendane.
” We will be comforted.

Jenny stroked his arm.
“I’ll see you in Iroquoia.”

“At the Condoling Council,”
he reminded her.
“Till then, beware. Here are thorny trails and falling trees, and wild beasts lie in wait. Above all, beware the Salt Beings.”
Salt Beings, what the Iroquois had called white men.

“This fall will be hard,” Soledad whispered to Jenny. “With you away; and all his extra stress at work, running ToyVote.” All the voting ran through Toynet, and any glitch was a national crisis. “Stay in touch,
hijita.
”

“I will, I promise.”

For a while George looked lost. Whatever momentary Toynet glitches were happening on Earth went unattended. At last he spoke, in a low voice with great dignity.
“Wakenekheren. Hiro kone.”
One will be missed. I have spoken.

*   *   *

Her father’s words filled her heart as Jenny found her way back down Buckeye Trail, gravel crunching beneath her shoes. The south solar was dark, the north solar fading. The southerly breeze quickened. The axial row of clouds had expanded like a sausage, obscuring the slanball court and Mount Gilead beyond. A drop of water cooled her arm, then another. Light rain fell, enough to turn the gravel trail to mud. She’d have to print out hiking boots.

“ToyNews—From our box to yours.” National again. “Clive Rusanov, here in Havana with Governor Guzmán.” The Centrist governor of Cuba, now Gar Guzmán, was running for president. For most of the past decade the president had been Bud Guzmán, and now there was his cultured hopeful Gar. All the Guzmáns had a chromosome 3 deletion that kept their intelligence below that required to wreck financial systems or solve urgent societal problems. “Governor, what do you think of Betsy’s chances in tonight’s debate?”

Presidential candidates watched the pollmeter so closely they always reached a dead heat. But their wives were the wild card. Everything else—ultra fears, coastline loss, skin cancer—could be spun with one plausible line or another, but the First Lady candidates, and the response they drew, remained largely beyond control. And wives had complex feelings about their spouses’ ambitions. A wife’s unscripted response could send a campaign down a new track.

Gar Guzmán’s majestic profile could have been chiseled on Mount Rushmore. “Clive, I’m confident Betsy will reassure the American people that we’re winning the War on Ultra. And more important, the War on Sin. The Flood is coming; only the faithful will survive. My first acts in office will be to double our solar output and build ten more ultra-free spacehabs.” Gar had beaten Jenny’s aunt in the Centrist primaries, by less than a hundred votes. Just as well; Jenny would have felt bad in November, voting against Aunt Meg.

“Winning the War on Ultra”—Clive nodded—“that’s good to hear. And now, from Salt Lake, the Unity candidate, Governor Anna Carrillo. Governor, how do you think Glynnis will do in tonight’s debate?”

Anna was coming off a bad week, with the ultraphyte biofilm spreading across Utah. “Clive, I know Glynnis will share with our fellow Americans our vision of recapturing the American dream: a secure financial future, and genetic health for all. And to save Earth by putting our solar plants and factories in space.” The Earth’s one hope; at what cost, no one dared say.

Jenny sighed. Anna’s wife Glynnis was smart, but Betsy Guzmán knew how to get under her skin. It would be a tough contest. Meanwhile the rain was done, the clouds shrunk to tiny puffballs, and the chocolate hillsides glowed sheer pink. The north solar above the Mound offered a spectacular “sunset,” lemon center peeling into fractal curves of orange. Instead of “setting,” however, the orange filled the center, turning scarlet. The scarlet hue stretched the entire length of the spacehab to touch the Ohio River, ringed by a rainbow. The glow slowly faded, like embers of a dying fire. Overhead glimmered the lights of Mount Gilead and the cords of the slanball court.

A red racing car screeched around the block puffing steam, its huge wheels kicking up pebbles, one of which hit Jenny in the ankle.
“¡Vaya!”
She watched their headlights streak across Castle Cockaigne. How could the college admit such
chusma
?

The car stopped and a door flew open. Out jumped a blond
chico
with a purple headband and a prominent nose ring.
“Fritz Hoffman, pledge educator.”
He put up an arm with a muscle the size of his neck. “Hey, Jenny. Don’t miss our Bulls Blowout, Wednesday night.” An invite popped up, Red Bulls Blowout and Pig Roast. Wednesday, the second day of class, after faculty advising Monday. Fritz winked. “We’re signing up voters. We’ll count on you.” His toybox had a full Unity campaign layout; apparently the Bulls ran Frontera’s Unity Club, campaigning for Carrillo.

Jenny managed a gracious smile. For Unity, one had to work with all kinds.

The Buckeye Trail led her back to her Virginia East cottage. The porch light was on, and she paused. On the porch, in the hanging chair, rocked her
compañera
, Mary Dyer.

Jenny stepped toward Mary and leaned on the porch rail. “Hi there, I’m Jenny. You must be…”

No toybox window appeared. At Mary’s feet, a brown-striped lizard skittered across the porch. The lizard flashed a blue tail, like the one that had climbed the shakes.

Mary nodded slowly, her chin jutting firm, a gold ring in her right nostril. She wore her tie-dyed shift, and her left hand held a water bottle. Her right hand flexed, the fingers in continual motion as if trying to creep away. Her arms and face glowed brightly, the most luminous skinglow Jenny had ever seen. “Mary Dyer,” she said. “We picked it from a name garden. Do you like it?”

“Sure, it’s a lovely name.” Mary smelled faintly like a marina, as if wearing trimethylamine perfume. She must really be into fish. “Did you get here okay? How do you like Frontera?”

Mary said, “We need shorter light.”

Jenny nodded, as though she understood. “I hope you get your fish back. I printed out my stuff in the living room, but feel free to add yours. I screened for TPIs.” Toy-print infections. “Did you miss the powwow? The president dropped in on a parachute—he’s
chulo
.” Talking to Mary was easy, she realized. She picked up right away that this Mary was a lot more challenged than herself.

“We missed the powwow. We were delayed.” Mary lifted the water bottle and took a long swallow. “The vote was close.”

Jenny blinked. “The what?”

“Twenty-one to twenty-two. It took a long time.”

“I see.” Autism, Dean Kwon had said. Maybe this was one of those incomprehensible jokes.

“We avoid crowds. Someone might notice we’re … not like them.”

“Sure, I understand,” said Jenny. “That’s why my dad avoids cocktail parties. So, you’re from Long Beach?”

“We came ashore there.”

“Your parents still live there? What do they do?”

“We don’t have parents.”

“Sorry.” Jenny bit her lip, remembering.

“We’re sorry,” Mary said. “We’re really sorry about all the poisoned fish.”

“Did your fish not make it through?”

“Poisoned by ultra.”

“Oh,” Jenny sighed. “Ultraphytes make cyanide—but only when stressed.” That poor squirrel back in Somers. “Ultras can be beautiful. Like poison frogs.” She recalled the yellow ultraphyte huddled in her basement, her project for the science fair. And now they were morphing into new forms; if only she could learn more. “Well, I know how you feel. I raise plants—but the quarantine took them.”

“We raise plants.”

“You do? Aquarium plants?”

Mary’s luminous eyes widened. “Humans make poisons too. And humans are beautiful.” She held up her water bottle and swallowed again. Then she offered Jenny something in her hand. “Will you be our friend?” Some kind of round white pills or candies.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“They’re…” Mary searched for a word. “‘Genuine.’”

Jenny looked again, and took one of the round pills between her fingers. It gleamed translucent in the porch light. A pearl. She peered closer at Mary’s face: smooth as a pearl, without pores.
“Prosthetic,”
suggested her toysearch. Prosthetic graft, perhaps for ectodermal dysplasia.
Qué lío,
what a mess this
chica
must be. “That’s okay, Mary,” she said kindly. “We’ll be friends.”

6

As soon as she got back to her room, Jenny printed out new clothes, a shirt of fashionable lime green with a loose, draping neckline, and a pair of black pants with a tiny moonhole on each seat. Next, smart black shoes with meter-long lime-green laces. Then she set her toybox to erase the moonholes, and the laces, for all public transmission. In her toybox, her parents’ two windows were closed, her father’s named
Iroquoia.
She sighed; with all her studies, she doubted she’d have much time for toyworlds.

Anouk’s window opened. “
Écoute,
Jenny; where are we going for supper?”

Jenny blinked. “The dining hall.”

The
parisienne
looked disappointed. “The campus has several nice cafés. Never mind,
chérie
—see you at the dining hall.”

She looked around for Mary. A tentative knock on the bedroom door produced no response, and no window opened in her box. With a shrug, Jenny left.

*   *   *

The dining hall looked like a draft printout, with long plain tables and benches in between. Returning students exclaimed at each other, windows winking and toyworld invites flashing.
“Vivian Hatley, Hostess, Begonia Club.”
A stylish
chica
with a Newman chin and Monroe lips caught Jenny’s hand. “Call me Viv, dear. I’m so glad we caught up at last. Those orchids of yours—stunning.” At Viv’s shoulder perched a creamy begonia with a yellow center and a leaf with an interestingly asymmetric heart shape. Viv’s window popped an invite to the Begonia Club Reception, Sunday afternoon.

Anouk, the Parisian math genius, was already seated next to Reesie, the slanball twin from the shuttle. Anouk lifted her hand, her thumb curved out from her exquisite fingers. Jenny pulled her legs over the bench, feeling awkward; there was no graceful way to sit.