The Highest Frontier (46 page)

Within a minute, Wolf Semerena strolled into the lab. Tall, with a runner’s lean muscles and a slightly hunched back, his sandals clacked on the waterproof floor.
“Was ist los?”

She dangled the worm in his face. “I told you,
no
invertebrates up here. Downstairs with ultra.”

“Certainly,
sofort.
” The biochemist smiled cheerfully, extending his palm for the intruder.

Jenny watched curiously. “Is that a pile worm?”

“I’m afraid so,” Semerena admitted. “It must have crawled out when the worms I transferred.” Semerena popped the hundred-legged worm into a jar, and put the jar in the pocket of his cutoff jeans beneath the “Devil’s Tramping Ground” T-shirt. “Until the day before yesterday, no one cares about my little saltwater friends. Then suddenly, Homeworld Security shows up in the box, and says, ‘Your worms are ultra now.’” He shrugged. “Fortunately, Sharon an ultra permit has.”

“So we keep them downstairs,” said Abaynesh. “With the real ultra.
Not
up here. You know how my plants feel about invertebrates.” She sounded genuinely ill.

“Hah.” Semerena pointed a finger. “Just wait till the ultra starts putting their genes into ver-te-brates.” He emphasized each syllable.

Jenny’s hair stood on end.

Professor Abaynesh considered this. “Maybe we shouldn’t wait. Maybe we should test and see.”

“It’s been tested,” said Semerena. “Ultra genes in vertebrates? No one ever finds.”

“There’s always a first time. Come.” She turned and marched out. Back at her office, she faced the wall of snakes. “Diads off, everyone.”

The wall parted down the middle, and the snake tanks swung inward to either side. Behind the snake tanks stood cages of frogs, rats, and chickens. “Let’s sample from each,” Abaynesh advised Semerena. “Take them downstairs with the ultraphytes. Then test their DNA every now and then, to see what’s happened.”

“Um.” Jenny swallowed. “Let’s see what Mary’s up to.” She and Anouk slipped back to the rows of potted twins, which Mary was eying reflectively.

“We might as well start our experiment,” Anouk sighed. “We have all these plants to spray with insect juice. Then sample each plant for semiochemicals, to see if they shared information, showing wisdom.” Her eyes scanned the protocol.

Mary looked up. “For humans, what is wisdom?”

Jenny rolled her eyes.
“Not this again.”

“She learned what laughter was, remember.”
Anouk added out loud, “Wisdom is … when people act wise,” she finished lamely. “When they make the best choice. In truth, wisdom is hard to find in Frontera.”

“Father Clare is wise,” Jenny said. “Father Clare always knows the right thing.”

“Yes, Father Clare,” said Anouk. “And also the toymaker, Zari Valadhkani. A Twelver, but she always prays wisely.” She looked at Mary. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” Mary agreed. “Father Clare is positive control. Where is negative control?”

“Negative control?” Jenny frowned thoughtfully. “You mean, zero wisdom?”

Anouk laughed. “Total foolishness—
mon Dieu.
Look all around you.”

“Those motor clubs,” agreed Jenny.

Mary asked, “Motor clubs have zero wisdom?”

“Not quite zero,” remembered Anouk. “My Rafael, he treats me wisely.”

“And the Bulls do some good things,” Jenny recalled. “They encourage voters.”

“There’s your Politics class.”

“Yes, they always say foolish things. Except for Priscilla, and sometimes Enrico.” It was surprisingly hard to think of anything or anyone in Frontera who never had a wise moment.

*   *   *

That evening was the first presidential candidates’ debate in Boulder. At supper, the Red Bulls had their table near the toywall, plates full of red jello to sling at the opponent. Ferraris wore suits and ties, ostentatious
adultos
. On the side, the nonpartisan Begonias raised a large tablet to score points.

“Can you believe next month they’ll be
here
?”

“Breathing our air.”

“Eating our amyloid jello?”

“
Tonto,
their DIRGs won’t let them eat our jello.”

“We can throw it right at them, LOL.”

The first debate was the culmination of months of planning by Soledad and her Centrist codirector of ToyDebate. Thanks to Jenny’s convention treachery, she was bumped from the event; no front-row toyseat, no need to wear her best suit and smile. Just sit back with her teammates and Mary, biting her knuckles, hoping Anna made no mistakes. The polls were neck and neck as usual, and the candidates fine-tuned their messages by the minute.

The toywall came alive with the Mound preview show. Head-feathered Shawnee warriors offered viewers odds on how many times Antarctica got mentioned, on whether
plátanos
came up, and whether a candidate stumbled across the stage.

Mary was watching the toywall, but she would see nothing because Babynet did only text. Jenny blinked through Babynet:
“I WILL TELL YOU WHAT THEY SAY.”

At last Clive came out, with truly big hair, the most stylish she had ever seen. Then the two candidates strode out, each to their own podium. Applause from the Boulder audience, in a stage before a twilight backdrop of the Rockies. Applause and jeers from the Frontera students.

“Our first debate,” announced Clive, “focuses on foreign affairs.” Clive preened and turned his head, showing his coif to best advantage. “The first question is for you, Governor Guzmán.”

Gar Guzmán, in his gray suit, winked at the audience and spread his infectious grin.

“Governor, tell us what you’ll do about the most pressing foreign issue facing our country: protecting our Antarctic farmland.”

Jenny closed her eyes, though it only blocked out her fellow students; the diad mercilessly streamed the debate into her brain. “Our farmland” indeed.

The Cuban governor’s eyes widened, and he nodded at the audience, his look assuring them at once how weighty the question was, and yet how he was totally on top of it. “First, let me say how important farmland is for America—as American as bighorn sheep or Wisconsin cheddar.”

A few chuckles at that; the Golds were pushing hard for Wisconsin this year. Jenny guessed that her parents might end up voting there.

“Of course the Antarctic Treaty System ensures in the interests of all humankind that Antarctica shall continue forever to be used exclusively for peaceful purposes. That is why our peacekeeping forces are stationed at the Transantarctic Mountains, to protect our West Antarctic wheat fields—the breadbasket of the free world.”

At the mention of “peacekeeping forces,” red jello appeared splattered across the toywall. The Begonia scoreboard, however, flashed a ten, presumably for the impact on the public brainstream.

Meanwhile, the Boulder audience applauded politely, and Clive nodded importantly. “Governor Carrillo, your response: What will you do about the most pressing issue facing our country: protecting our Antarctic farmland?”

The Utah governor began. “First, in a bipartisan spirit, I must agree with my fellow governor that I’m fond of Wisconsin cheddar—and very, very concerned for the bighorn sheep. I’m also concerned about the blue spruce, the columbine, the lark bunting, and the greenback cutthroat trout.”

Extended applause from the studio audience. All these wild flora and fauna were dear to the heart of Coloradans, yet barely survived in the wild.

“I’m concerned about more than farmland; about the entire Earth as home and food source for all human, animal, and plant members of the divine natural world. And we have to do something about that. We must use our human powers to preserve this planet, the one world we have, of whose stewardship we’ve been entrusted. Before it’s too late.”

A promising start; Anna had even got the word “divine” in there before Gar did. Jenny let out a breath. But the Begonia scoreboard listed only five points. Something was missing.

“So of course,” continued Anna, “our peacekeeping forces must remain stationed at the Transantarctic Mountains, to maintain our enlightened stewardship of West Antarctica.”

Jenny closed her eyes again. Farming Antarctica was the worst distraction from solving Earth’s problems. No sun from April through September, and the sparse coastal wheat crop required extensive fertilization and irrigation of the arid land. Plus ongoing “peacekeeper incidents” with opponent forces.

“Governor Guzmán,” Clive pursued, “Governor Carrillo just now brought up the role of the ‘divine.’ What do you see as the role of the divine in our stewardship of Earth?”

Guzmán nodded sagely. “I know in my heart that the divine will above the Firmament ordains the fate of our Earth. And that fate is not far from coming. The end time is not far off. Yet it’s not too late to repent of our worldly ways. Restore family values—that will save America. When the Flood comes (as our scientists keep telling us it will), those of us who’ve followed divine rule will be saved.”

Silence fell in the dining hall. Flood and salvation were nothing new, but to hear a future president predict it as policy gave pause for thought.

“And Governor Carrillo,” said Clive. “Do you share your opponent’s view? What is the role of the divine in our stewardship of Earth?”

Here was Anna’s chance to tell the truth: that God created the entire universe, in all its vast size, and found it good; that humans had to find their place on Earth, and take care of it; that we must clean up our mess in space, and set our sights on Jupiter.

Anna said, “The Unity coalition embraces a big tent philosophy. We embrace citizens of all beliefs regarding the Firmament, all who share our fundamental principles of government serving the people. Divine wisdom calls different people in different ways to serve our country.”

“WISDOM,”
texted Mary in Babynet.
“IS THIS HUMAN WISDOM?”

“ZERO WISDOM,”
Jenny replied.
“NO WISDOM HERE.”

37

The first call Dylan found in his toybox Monday morning was Gil Wickett. Gil’s window fairly vibrated with distress as the round-faced Toynet trillionaire glared anxiously out at him. “Dillie, what’s going on? It’s there in the code. Your staff have been using a—a competitor.”

“Excuse me, Gil?”

“A competing system.” Behind him a rattle and a whistle, as the toy train chugged around the amyloid mountain. Tiny lights blinked red and yellow at the road crossing.

Dylan flashed his “let’s have fun” smile. “Sorry, Gil, it’s been a long weekend.” Red Bull alums from Frontera’s first graduating class were back to fish the Ohio, sky-bike the cloud, and drop wads of cash at the Mound. And boost endowment for the campaign. “You know I’m not up on those toy details like you are. But my staff is the best—the finest staff at any college in the world. I’ll get right on it with them. Did you ever solve Zari’s last Phaistos disk? Of course you did; right away I’m sure.”

Gil paused as if avoiding a smile. “Of course I solved that trifle. Tell her to send me another—a hard one this time.” Then he frowned again. “You know I can’t stand … a competing system. It destabilizes transmission.”

“Destabilize—goodness, Gil, we can’t have that. You know we value stability above all else.” The ghosts in the current system were bad enough—the latest one from Sharon’s five-year-old took down the whole college for a morning. And just when the Ebola died down, a new flu outbreak sprang from the printers.

As soon as he’d got Gil taken care of, Dylan blinked for Zari. The toymaker appeared in the midst of her Monday morning staff meeting. All the teddies sat around on their nap rugs, each with a glass of milk and a chocolate cupcake.

“Good morning, Zari. How’s the system doing? Is last week’s … instability under control?”

Zari nodded. “
No problema.
We took care of the culprit.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said with relief.

“In fact, she’s right here.” Zari nodded in the direction of an intense curly-haired five-year-old sucking her thumb on a nap rug. “The youngest we’ve hired.”

“‘Hired’?” The perpetrator of the kudzu ghost throughout the college.

“For a special job, not everyday service,” Zari assured him. “She’s testing the new Babynet system. A few Babynet hubs in the net could enormously stabilize transmission.”

“I see.” These children, this generation, born with brainstream in their heads.
Childhood’s End,
it gave him the creeps. “I don’t suppose this ‘Babynet’ might be considered a … competing system?”

“Competing with Toynet? No way. Not today, anyhow. Tomorrow, who knows?” The toymaker grinned, her brow lifting. “Tova’s nearly the age Gil was when he first set up Toynet. Maybe she’ll build her own network some day, and found a college on Jupiter.”

Dylan forced a smile. “Well, we can take the competition. Could you spare a moment to send Gil another Phaistos?
Le mucho gustaba
your last one.”

*   *   *

The ToyDebate planning group gathered in Dylan’s toy-half conference room; half of them there in the flesh, the rest out on Toynet. Soledad, in her dark purple suit, whispered something to her cochair Jeremiah Stone, in a gray suit with a gold bowtie. The pair got along famously, considering each thought the other was Satan. At left the Secret Service director, with Sigourney Weaver’s trademark chin, scanned her toybox ceaselessly. Dylan thought back to Teddy Roosevelt, the first American president to experience Secret Service protection; Teddy’s own bodyguard, “Big Bill,” had died in a trolley crash, the first officer to die while protecting the president. Two centuries had brought much change, but the vigilance of the Secret Service remained the same. The director sat flanked by her two Weaver-type DIRGs, standard for civilian crowd control, the gentle ruthless look.

“The powwow ground,” Soli was saying. “And the faculty processing in their robes—we love it, don’t we, Jermy.”

Jeremiah nodded sagely. “Great show, great view. As good as outdoors—first ‘outdoor’ debate ever.”