The Highest Frontier (26 page)

The
parisienne
pursed her lips. “The Creep is tough,” she admitted. “I’ve gotten close.” It pleased her to have the attention of the entire slanball team.

“Well,” said Yola, “let us know whoever he plans to invade next.” They all had high school classmates serving in Antarctica, Earth’s last source of new farmland. Yola turned to Jenny. “EMS tonight at nine, dwork. Don’t forget.”

*   *   *

The emergency medical volunteers met upstairs in Wickett Hall. Along with Jenny and Yola, there was one other Frontera student, Nick Petherbridge, Uncle Dylan’s senior assistant. There stood Travis Tharp, and a cattle farmer, Frank Lazza, who had helped pull the cow out of the ditch on Raccoon Run; and two older men in power bands, one of them Judge Bart Baynor. Baynor was the town’s morality officer. One of those posts always down there on the ballot, along with county auditor and dogcatcher. Frank and the judge were peering with a penlight into the carapace of one of the medibots. Medibots outnumbered the volunteers two to one.

“Welcome, heroes!” Doc Uddin had long gray-streaked blond hair in braids down her back and a scanscope slung around her neck, the round cuff resting on her overalls. She nodded at Frank and the judge. “Thanks for taking time from your Labor Day barbecue.” The college seemed to ignore most holidays. “And welcome Jenny, our new volunteer. We could use more,” she told Yola hopefully.

Yola nodded. “We have a couple other frogs interested, but they need to complete training.”

Frank Lazza looked up from the stalled medibot. “Could the college maybe train entering frogs the summer before? We’re always short-handed, first semester.”

“We’re working on that.” Doc Uddin grimaced. “The admissions transition … has been a challenge.” Every lack seemed to get blamed on the new admissions director, Luis Herrera Smith. “But we’re doing better. Our human-attended call rate is up over fifty percent.”

“That won’t last, when call volume rises.”

“I know last Wednesday was rough, but now that classes are in full swing, things should quiet down.”

“Wednesdays,” sighed the farmer. “Couldn’t the college just require Thursday-morning classes?”

“Sure—like Mount Gilead could make skybikers wear helmets.” Doc Uddin turned to Jenny. “Jenny, please arrange a full tour and tutorial, Friday at the Barnside.” The Barnside Clinic was the hab’s one medical facility, installed in a barn at a local farm. The doctor looked around the group, her thick braid swiveling around her back. “Three flu cases already, in Huron.” The first-year residence hall where Tom lived. “A new strain printed out somewhere; Zari’s fixing the filter, but you know we can expect more from those common-room printers.” Ghostwriters were always coding new flu strains, a scam even worse than a leprechaun in your toyroom. “Make sure you all download the update to your scanscope. Jenny, here’s yours.”

The doctor handed Jenny her scanscope, and the connection blinked in. To check, Jenny clicked the scanscope around her wrist. The ring of amyloid molded to her arm, where it could find a vein. Blood meter, microscope, dialysis, drug injection.

“A reminder.” Doc Uddin looked grim. “Any recreational use gets you expelled and deported. One strike, you’re out.”

Jenny nodded. “So when am I on call? What’s the rotation?”

“You’re on call twenty-four/seven. Whoever responds first takes the call.”

“What if I’m in class?”

“Someone else has to go.”

Jenny looked around. Six volunteers, plus a dozen medibots. “What if no one else is available?”

“Bots are always available.” Bots responding alone. Unthinkable back in Somers.

Nick offered, “I’ll take the morning calls; my classes are all afternoon.”

Yola tapped Jenny’s arm. “You can miss a class. You’re super smart; you’ll catch up.”

20

Tuesday morning Jenny made it to slanball on a full night’s sleep. With five days left, the team was coming together: one-on-one defense, blocked shots, and above all they pulled up their slanning percentage. Coach Porat was pleased. “Great Bears are the oldest team in the league, and we’re still the greatest,” he told them. “But remember: the Scorpions are tougher, so we need to get smarter.”

At Life, it was Anouk’s day to present. Back on the toyworld savannah, student models were winking in. Some had morphed their appearance into a film star or a monster, but most models showed up as themselves, bleary-eyed after their full weekend. Charlie looked bright and enthusiastic, much uplifted by the morning practice. Tom looked as usual, like Newman on a horse, ready to face whatever rode over the hill.

In the middle of the lake, some monstrous thing was rising from the deep. A swirl, and a colored shape breasted the waves. Up rose a gigantic tangle of an RNA. The molecule resembled the RNA that had taken Jenny for a wild ride to Ng’s lab. It looked simpler, though, Jenny thought hopefully; this RNA had only four stem-loops.

As the molecule emerged, Anouk stepped forward in a fiendishly tessellated dress, the pattern so fine and sharp it made Jenny’s head swim. Anouk turned to face the class. “Ribonucleic acid is the most ancient of life’s molecules. As you know, the first cells on Earth were all made of RNA—”

Professor Abaynesh waved a hand. “And ultraphyte genomes still are.”

Anouk rolled her eyes. “And ultraphyte genomes. No DNA for them.” Anouk brainstreamed parts of the molecule to light up. “Now the messenger RNA code consists of four main letters like DNA; but this transfer RNA which you see here, a relatively small molecule, also uses the so-called ‘unusual’ bases such as pseudouridine—”

“And methyladenine,” interrupted the professor. “The ultraphytes still use methyladenine in their RNA.”

With an exasperated glance, Anouk muttered something in French.

Jenny quickly asked, “Could you please point out the pseudouridine?” To her relief, the students got to climb and check out the atoms without riding or sliding. Jenny lost her footing just once, when she failed to grasp a phosphate. Charlie slipped into the lake, where he had a great time splashing. By the end of the hour, half the class was splashing around in the virtual lake.

After class, Anouk ran off to assist toymaker Valadkhani’s Developmental Arithmetic class. Above Buckeye Trail, the air still sprouted pink fringes of smartspray. Jenny stopped by Abaynesh’s office beneath the outsized Reagan jelly beans.

“Good job marking the RNA.” The professor spoke while brainstreaming the transfer bees that hovered about her
Arabidopsis
plants, sniffing hormones and inserting genes here or there. “How are your orchids?”

“The orchids are great,” Jenny admitted. “They grow so fast here. Is it the spacehab?”

Abaynesh kept her eye on the bees. “I gave your orchids a semiochemical to boost their motivation. It’s temporary, it’ll wear off.”

Jenny frowned, hoping not to sound dumb. “Motivation?”

“How else do you boost production?” The professor blinked another paper over to Jenny, adding to the stack she struggled through. “Better yet, transform their genes to make the semiochemical. Then all the plants motivate each other.” She cast a dark look outside at the sky, still aggrieved about the spraying. “Different inputs stimulate the plants to form different neural networks.” She pointed to a row of plants with a profusion of flower buds, more than Jenny had ever seen on
Arabidopsis
. “This strain has a production network. They want to work hard. Very productive—I have a grant from the National Association of Wheat Growers.”

Jenny opened her mouth, then carefully shut it again.

“You won’t find it commercially, not yet approved. Now here—” Abaynesh reached across to the next row of plants. “We are making a ‘wisdom’ network, nerves that can be organized to guide wise and cooperative behaviors. Suppose different plants possess effective defenses against the diamond-back moth, the beet armyworm, or the cabbage looper. Each plant releases enzymes to combat different worms. Will the plants develop a ‘wisdom circuit’ directing them to share the light and grow equally, rather than overcrowding?”

Jenny winced at the thought. “I still don’t follow what these ‘networks’ are.”

“The networks are made by cloning a set of genes into
Arabidopsis
. For example…” She rose and headed out to the greenhouse, still talking. “This variant of
A. sapiens
has a laughter network. It detects a stimulus and finds it funny.”

The plant sat there, about a dozen leaves radiating from the base, a stalk projecting upward about a foot high. The stalk had a few flower buds. It didn’t look particularly amused.

Professor Abaynesh touched a leaf. The whole plant shuddered for a moment, and the stalk swayed back and forth. “See, it’s laughing.”

“Really?” Jenny viewed the plant skeptically.

“It lacks discrimination,” Abaynesh conceded. “The network has less than a thousand neurons. It can’t always tell what’s funny. It laughs at me no matter what.” She pointed to the next plant. “This other strain has a depression network. Much simpler; only fifty neurons.”

The depressed plant looked similar to the laughing plant, except it had fewer leaves, and they drooped; it could use a good watering. When the professor touched it, several leaves fell off. “The depressed strain is very hard to grow. This one probably won’t survive being touched. I have to plant a whole flat of them to keep a few going. Usually I end up having to start over and engineer a new line.” She moved on to the row of plants. “Now here, we have a worship network.”

“Uh … a what?” The plants looked very ordinary, nearly picture perfect
Arabidopsis
.

“They sense a higher power and respond. Don’t leave your mouth open, something might fly in.”

Jenny shut her mouth and swallowed. “They sense … when you touch them?”

The professor shook her head. “This strain hears only an inner calling.”

Remembering Howell’s question, Jenny asked, “Do they pray in church?”

“Of course not.” The professor moved on. “They pray in shul.”

Suddenly Jenny realized how late it was. “I’m sorry, I’ll be late for my appointment with Professor Hamilton.”

Abaynesh turned and looked at her curiously. “Hamilton? What for?”

Jenny frowned, reluctant to say. “To help me. Anyway, thanks for all the … examples. I think I have a better idea now of what I’m reading.”

“You should be careful around Professor Hamilton.”

Jenny wondered how to take that. She herself was suspicious of Hamilton, but one professor should not speak ill of another.

The professor’s eyes widened. “You’ve got your own greenhouse. Why don’t you take some plants home to play with?”

“Well, I don’t know—”

“You could try behavioral conditioning.” She summoned a cart, whose surface opened like the mouth of a bag. She picked up one of the laughing plants. “These are easy to work with. Here’s the training protocol.” A new window joined the jungle of windows in Jenny’s toybox.

“Um … orchids are so delicate. I have to keep them free of any pests, like those cabbage loopers—”

Abaynesh looked shocked. “We would never have cabbage loopers in here.” She whispered, “I just scare the plants with their semiochemicals.”

“I see. Well, if you’re sure…”

The professor had kept Jenny’s orchids here, after all, and they came through okay. She arranged two flats in the cart, which extended a cover. “There you go. The cart will follow you right home.”

Jenny hurried out to Buckeye Trail, narrowly avoiding a spring peeper squashed in the gravel. The cart moved along, its tractor tread comfortably negotiating the ruts and race car skid ruts. She hurried over to Hamilton’s office, wishing she had time to drop off the cart at her room first.
“Sorry I’m late,”
she texted quickly.

He waved his hand with a dismissive air, ignoring the cart. “Have a seat, please.”

The chair was the kind you could sink into and never get up. Hamilton’s office had the same feel of plush elegance as his classroom. The desk was full of souvenirs from various think tanks, the Heritage Foundation, the Rand. An end table held a statue of a Greek discus thrower, and a curious round token imprinted with the letter Z.

“Jenny, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to have a student who’s actually read the Founding Fathers. ‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’—you certainly addressed profound points in your essay.”

“Thank you.”
She felt cautious, self-protective, and curious all at once. Why would this professor run for mayor? she wondered. Mayor was a busy job; you had to keep the streets clean and the water flowing.

“Especially the pursuit of happiness. That all men form governments so as to free them for individual pursuit of happiness—that’s so American,” he added. “And yet … is that what Aristotle was about, I wonder. Aristotle’s
polis
was a modest-sized world of gentlemen, about the size of Mount Gilead, perhaps. Gentlemen who’d grown up together, who knew each other intimately. Trust can be extended only to a small circle of friends, fellow citizens. Such things as love, affection, friendship, and sympathy are the grounds of political life; a life in which men care for one another. Isn’t that what the
polis
is about … a political community small enough for affection?”

Jenny wondered what he was getting at. If Aristotle was only for small-town mayors, then why was he quoted in the halls of Congress? Maybe that was their problem, the hacks who treated Congress like a playground for their friends.

“Shared trust comes from shared values. Values expressed through speech,
logos
. It is
logos
that makes us political. Through speech we become fully human. Speech or reason; they amount to the same thing. For instance, shared praise of the heavenly bodies placed in the Firmament—”

“There is no such thing.”

Jenny’s heart pounded so hard she could scarcely hear. For a moment the room swam around her, then her head cleared. The professor was still sitting there, and her statement hung in the air. He nodded appreciatively. “You certainly expressed your point.”