The Highest Frontier (29 page)

In her window the figures scrolled down. Methemoglobin—the level was out of sight. Hemoglobin with the iron oxidized, so it couldn’t bind oxygen. What caused that?

At her side, the medibot was already snaking the oxygen line. The scanscope followed up with an enzyme that reduced the hemoglobin, removing whatever displaced the oxygen. One minute passed, then the next. The methemoglobin number went down, then again, a steady decline. The baby pinked up and began to breathe.

Jenny took a long breath. “I think she’ll be okay.” She turned to the mother. “What else did you feed her?” Antibiotics, antiseptics, even certain dyes could cause methemoglobinemia.

The mother shook her head. “I made up the formula with clean water, just like the doctor said.”

“Where’d you get the water?”

“Our tap, of course.”

Nitrates. “From that stream? It’s polluted.” Nitrates from fertilizer runoff could turn to nitrites in a baby’s stomach, then oxidize the hemoglobin.

“That’s what the doctor said. So I boiled the water an hour, before using.”

Jenny closed her eyes. “That’s the worst thing you could do. It only concentrates the nitrates. Didn’t the doctor tell you to use bottled water?”

“How could we afford that?” The mother looked around her, at the room. Her shoulders collapsed, and she stared at the floor. “We can barely keep up the house payment. As it is, we’re three days from meltdown.”

22

Thursday morning, Dylan was at the Mound for his meeting with Bobby Foxtail Forrester, manager of the Native American Mound Casino and Worship Center. Dylan came early for a few hands of blackjack with Nick Petherbridge plus a couple of alumni online. Dylan never won in the long run, but he kept ahead long enough to give the alums a sense of his management skill, assuring them that their gifts were in good hands. The dealer was an amyloid DIRG, whose flourish around the table was just for show, as the cards melted up from the table surface. In the air, floating feathers glimmered red, green, or blue, carrying drinks and self-cleansing cigarettes. The dealer’s up card was a ten; Dylan blinked “hit” for another card. The dealer ended up going bust, while Dylan won the hand.

“
Guao,
President Chase,” exclaimed Nick, “your luck is running high today.”

“For the scholarship fund,” said Dylan with a winning smile.

The manager sailed over, so smoothly his feet might never leave the floor. Impeccable tie, his generous round face always conveyed the aim of enriching every player.

“Bobby!
Muchas gracias
for the opening drums. They were awe-inspiring, as always.”

“No trouble. Please, do me the honor…” Bobby drew Dylan by the elbow into his office. His desk was flanked by American and Ohio State flags between spiral-sculpted evergreens in marble pots. Above soared the famous two-hundredth-anniversary mural of Shawnee warchief Blue Jacket charging to victory against the army of the Northwest Territories. “I do hope all the classes are going well.”

“Our strongest class of frogs so far.”

“Our classes too,” agreed Bobby, “particularly for blackjack and three-card poker. Students all want to learn strategy.”

“Quite an education, I’m sure.”

Bobby nodded gravely. “We do appreciate the college. So well mannered, so patriotic about their taxes. Alumni bring their families back. Enhance our brand.”

Dylan spread his hands. “I’m glad our students do credit to their institution.”

“No trouble, no trouble at all.”

“As you know, our staff are always ready to help out.”

“We know you are, no trouble.”

“Including that young man who played out his ticket home.” The played-out Peoria grocery clerk, now in college rehab.

“Indeed?” Bobby’s face went blank a moment as he made a show of scanning his box. “Ah, no trouble, I see. The customer cashed his ticket through a shady Maldivian syndicate, the kind you can’t trace. His ticket record literally vanished.”

“I understand.” A vanished record; the sort of thing to make an executive’s hair stand on end.

“We make arrangements of course, but this was the fourth time for this particular customer. We thought he might find your rehab … educational.”

“Ah,
entiendo.
”

Bobby stood straighter and gave a sharp nod. “It’s done, no trouble. He’ll be sent home straight.”

“Muchas gracias.”
Why hadn’t Bobby done that right away—he had wanted to call Dylan in here for something. “Bobby, you know the college is fully supportive of our relationship. We do whatever we can.”

“Absolutely. Especially the habitat. Photogenic flora and fauna, unique exotic species, just dangerous enough for adventure. It fits our native tradition.”

“And prompt pest treatment.” Was that Bobby’s concern?

“Pest treatment—no trouble at all.” Bobby paused, clasping and unclasping his hands. “Perhaps some space treatment? Strings in Washington?”

The new directive from Homeworld Security. The cutback on monitoring space debris, from 99 percent coverage to 96. You didn’t need to count cards to figure out what that meant. But if even the Mound, with all their funds and their clout with the statehouse, couldn’t get this fixed …

The Mound was the only off-world casino founded outside Centrist control. After Frontera’s success, the Centrists had found ways to underwrite Towers and Rapture without compromising their earthly values. If Frontera took a hit, they’d make sure to control the next one—and complete their monopoly on the colonial Firmament. Dylan knew what Teddy Roosevelt would say to that. He straightened his stance and gave a brave smile. “We’ll get right on it.”

“No trouble, Dylan; I knew you would.”

Alone outside the Mound, he allowed himself a sigh. Uneasy lies the head that runs a college full of golden-haired children beloved of eight hundred terrestrial families, thirty-six thousand klicks from home. He strode briskly back down Buckeye Trail, stopping only to pick the occasional piece of gravel from his shoe.

Just before his next office appointment, Nora popped into his toybox. “The latest on the F-car investigation. Thought you ought to know.”

“Yes?”

“We interviewed every bro in both clubs, and then some. A key witness swears the Bulls’ pledge class compacted the car, then engineered a forklift to get it onto the roof. But the forensic evidence shows DNA only from Ferrari pledges.”

He nodded. “Sounds like last year.”

“Regardless, a Ferrari parent just replaced the car. This year’s model, guaranteed to win. As for last night, EMS got five kids detoxed, including one fallen from the cloud ladder, plus they covered an infant in Mount Gilead. A typical Wednesday night,” she added with emphasis.

“The infant is okay? I’ll have Nick schedule me a visit.” The colonists were still upset at how their mayor had died last year with just a medibot on hand, because all the EMS volunteers were tied up at the college. Of course, it would help if the village could shake loose some funding for the Barnside; their state and federal reps were useless.

“The Ramos Kennedy girl is a godsend,” Nora added. “Meanwhile, the latest trend this year: flooding residence halls.”

“Flooding?” Every new year seemed to sport some particular class of prank. Vandalizing faculty offices, pulling fire alarms, or setting fires; the last made him shudder, thank God that was out of vogue. Whatever it was, there’d be a spate of them, mysteriously ending after that year, while the next year ushered in some new form of mayhem.

“They pull one of the valves and shoot it down the hall. Two cases last night, in Scioto and Huron.” The first-year scholarship dorms—usually done by drunk seniors. “No perps yet. And by the way, Alan’s on the warpath.” Nora winked. “Just thought you ought to know.”

Dylan sank into his chair. Meanwhile, into the president’s office marched the student leaders of three social clubs: Fritz Hoffman, with his healthy shock of hair and endearing wide-eyed look; Viv Hatley, the well-connected future toytrader; and the suit, Rob LaSalle. It was hard to imagine their three rival clubs agreeing on something, except for a common foe.

“As you know, President Chase,” Rob explained, “the college’s foremost athletic team discriminates against our social groups. It’s a perennial problem, but it’s come to a head this year. Our right to freedom of association has been infringed.”

Dylan nodded understandingly. “Infringement of rights” of course meant a veiled threat of action that could dip into the college’s legal defense fund. “I understand your feelings, Rob. Of course, the constitutional right to associate is a First Amendment matter, pertaining to freedom of speech. I trust no one has interfered with you expressing your views?”

Viv leaned forward. “It’s a question of standards, President Chase. As social groups with collegiate standing, we need to uphold our own standards of membership.”

“Intimate association,” insisted Rob. “The courts have held that fraternal organizations are intimate, familial groups. With the right to choose brothers that meet our standards.” In fact, the courts had ruled so many different ways over the past century, the only certainty was it would cost the college one way or another.

“The slanball team has its standards too,” Dylan pointed out. “A team needs to be competitive.”

Fritz said, “We’re just Division Three-A. Our competing schools don’t all have these extreme athletic requirements. We put academics first.”

This turn of logic perplexed Dylan, and he could see Rob shift in his seat.

“Safety is our rule,” Rob pointed out. “The Amethyst Rule: Can recruits drink responsibly? Drink is part of social life.”

“Like Wednesday night?” asked Dylan. “Was that ‘amethyst’?”

“We have to test the recruits, see what they can handle. We don’t want to admit men who can’t drink safely.”

“Do you exclude nondrinkers?”

“Of course not,” said Rob quickly. “Not if they really want to join.”

Dylan turned to Fritz. He had a real affection for the Red Bulls, who most resembled the greeks of his own pre-nondrinking days. The first group that had fully accepted him, made him feel like an insider. There was nothing like a group of extremely nice guys with their inhibitions loosened by a few beers. “Anything to add?”

Fritz wrinkled his brow. “I just feel really bad about this one frog, who had to withdraw his bid in order to stay on the team.” Charlie Itoh, the Chase scholar.

“He chose to, you mean.” Making choices—all the students had trouble with that.

Viv added, “One of our pledges was cut from the team. It’s not right.”

“Recruits,” corrected Rob. Pledging was not till the next week of class, though unofficially the clubs had recruited all summer. “It’s discrimination,” Rob added. “Discriminating against our group. Our … friends will hear about this.”

“Friends?” Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “You mean affiliates.”

“Oh, no,” said Viv. “Of course not—we can’t have affiliates.”

The two
chicos
murmured their agreement. Of course, all three clubs had a greek affiliation under the radar. Greeks with big-gun lawyers.

Dylan sighed. “I am very sorry about this, believe me, and I will certainly have a chat with Coach Porat.” A chat he did not look forward to. “To see whether some accommodation might be made. We need to tread lightly, though. Raising such issues is likely to spur our faculty’s investigation of the … matter of affiliates.”

The three all looked suitably alarmed. The faculty were the only ones who might press a principled objection regardless of financial cost. At present, though, the faculty committee on student affairs was moribund; no need to breathe life into it. A good part of the president’s job, he reflected, consisted of convincing all parties to desist from actions they’d later regret.

*   *   *

“Your health, Dylan.” Alan Porat crossed his legs on the chair, his
kippah
neatly capping his crew cut, a steely grin hiding any hint of displeasure.

“How are you, Alan?” Dylan began. “How’s the team?”

Alan shrugged. “How should we be?”

Dylan glanced nervously around the room, hoping for no snakes nor any other unexpected creatures associated with the Porat-Abaynesh family. “Winning, of course. I’m sure you’ll have a winning season. Especially with your new recruits, like the Ramos Kennedy daughter.”

“Whose time is lost detoxing wasted bros.”

Dylan nodded. “You know how badly EMS needs volunteers.”

“At this rate I’ll have no team left.”

“There are the Tsien twins. My understanding is that Rickie and Reesie really want to play.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise. Apparently they want to play like a fish wants to fly out of water.”

“Alan, that’s hardly fair. They both had award-winning records in high school. You recruited them yourself.”

“And I explained the rules up front.”

“Can’t we meet halfway on this?” Dylan offered. “Surely some modest level of imbibing won’t hurt, well after any games?”

The coach’s eyebrows rose. “I’m training students to shoot around in a cage a thousand meters above ground, and you speak of modest intoxication?” He placed his fingertips together. “Perhaps we should give players the weekend off, and move all our games to Wednesdays.”

“What?” Dylan blinked rapidly. “No, of course not; that would never do.”

“Wednesday afternoon. Other schools schedule no classes then.”

The Frontera faculty would toss out their mortarboards. “Alan, we know that’s a nonstarter.”

The coach shrugged. “So be it. On my team, there will be as little ethanol in the blood as mosquitoes in the hab.”

“Come now,” muttered Dylan. “Our own digestion generates a third of a drink’s worth daily.”

“A third of a drink probably wouldn’t show up.”

“A third of a drink? Would that be allowed?” A hint of a compromise.

“I’ll stick with what I said.” Alan rose from his seat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m really busy. As you know, Rosh Hashanah came early this year.”

“Of course.
Shanah tovah.
”

As he turned to go, Alan stopped, remembering something. “Dylan, I want you to know how impressed I am about Flood Awareness Day. The students are planning it, but I know they had your blessing.”