The Highest Frontier (31 page)

“¡Oye!”
Jenny half smiled. “A good thing they can’t filibuster.”

The stunned body began to recover. Its form relaxed and began to undulate again.

“What happened?” Jenny asked. “How did it recover?”

“Count the cells.”

Jenny zoomed her toybox and began to count. “Thirteen again. The fourth from the end; it fissioned into two smaller cells.”

“Precisely. One of its cells must double, to restore the odd number.”

“It counts its cells!” Anouk clapped her hands. “What if it has nine cells? Could it split in three factions?”

“That might happen, but eventually they’d double enough cells to restore a prime.”

“Of course, how sensible. These cells would fit right into my Series World.”

Mary said, “They’re getting hungry. They need to feed.” No light bank.

“We’ll see about that. First—” The professor grew stern, and stared at the three students. “The one non-terrestrial life form to make the Homeworld terror list, and it shows up in your residence? You’re all in deep trouble.”

Jenny and Anouk stared back, then at each other. The mention of trouble set their instinct for self-preservation against the ancient taboo of betraying a fellow student. “We did nothing wrong,” blurted Jenny. “The ultra—like, it was just there.”

Abaynesh rolled her eyes. “Woe is me. ‘It was just there.’ Like all the bros said about the compacted car atop the Ferrari clubhouse.”

Anouk drew herself up. “As for me, I’m already banned from Earth; I can’t afford more trouble.” Turning to Mary, she said sweetly, “No one’s hurt your pet,
chérie.
Tell the good professor where you got it.”

Mary’s eyes defocused.

“It’s okay, Mary,” Jenny assured her. “Tell the professor how it got through quarantine.”

A purple light came on above the tank, feeding UV. “Does that help?” offered Abaynesh.

Mary said, “I grew them.”

“You grew them? An experiment?” The professor shook her head. “What is it with students today, they want to do research but not take the classes. The least you could do is take Life 101.”

Jenny texted,
“She can’t use Toynet.”

“Am I to believe our great new
angeleno
admissions director accepted a student who can’t use Toynet?”

Anouk said, “She’s an omniprosthete.”

At the mention of “omniprosthete,” something seemed to click for Mary. “Omniprosthete,” Mary repeated. “That is what the doctors said. Omniprosthete—we can grow things inside. The doctors said people won’t understand us.”

The professor listened. She looked hard at Mary, then at the tank, then back to Mary. “You can’t use Toynet, but you have exceptional talents to compensate.” Abaynesh nodded to herself. “Very well, you may take the Life class with me, in person.”

“¡Oye!”
said Jenny. “That’s great for you, Mary.” She almost felt jealous.

“We study terrestrial life first,” the professor emphasized. “Not the trendy outer space kind.”

“Terrestrial life,” repeated Mary. “Yes.”

“Then sign the add-drop form right away. But how, without a toybox?” The professor went to the printer. Out came a writing stick, and a sheet of crinkly material. “You can sign here.”

Mary stared quizzically at the Aristotelian sheet.

“If you can’t write either, just mark with an X. Your
compañera
will sign as witness.”

Jenny swallowed and flexed her hand. “Um, I don’t know.” She hadn’t hand-written anything since kindergarten.

The professor shook her head. “And this one expects to reach Jupiter.”

Anouk extended her hand. “I took calligraphy class, in my
lycée
.” She held Mary’s hand to form an X, then signed her own name with a flourish worthy of the Declaration.

“You’re still in trouble,” Abaynesh reminded them. “I have no choice but to turn you in. Your residence will be atomized—who knows if more are hiding?” She stared hard at Mary. “And you’ll have to face Dean Kwon.”

“‘What a good idea!’” said Mary in Dean Kwon’s voice. “‘I hope you feel better soon.’”

24

The Lunar Circuit stretched out in Mare Crisium, a smooth crater basin six hundred klicks across. Just a sliver of sun rose east, but the track gleamed amid glowing billboards, casinos, and zooparks. Their primary colors pulsed against the airless dark of the “firmament,” filled with the twinkling haze of sublunary rubble. The rubble nowadays claimed more lives than the track, like that poor French crew last August, rest in peace. A cone of light appeared as an incoming shuttle vaporized the debris ahead of its descent.

Out on the track, a car sailed up into the overhead loop. The circuit, actually a series of tracks and associated entertainment operations, financed the United Nations and the International Monetary Fund. Dylan had driven pro for two years, then later used to take Fritz out to joyride, until the boy got hooked on saving species. Dylan still owned one beloved car, an Anthradyne 500 two-seater, which he shared with very good friends of the college.

Within the terminal, Dylan took an anxious look at Gil, encased like himself in “sausage roll,” their term for lunar suiting. Gil was dutifully running the two dozen checks on his suit, the sort of task he loved and was good at. Dylan’s attention returned to his toybox.

In the box, Helen Tejedor faced him at her desk beneath the colonial ax. “About the special fellowship program, for faculty recruitment.” The blond dean of faculty wore her usual “I’ve accomplished something” smile. “Faculty Development finally approved it.”

“
¿Verdad?
With all the caveats about course load flexibility?”

In the corner, Nora Kwon’s window blinked
URGENT
. Dylan hoped Nora’s list was not too long, would not outlast Gil’s patience. That aside, he was extremely interested to hear from Helen. Getting a committee of three faculty to agree on anything, even a pay raise, could take months. And something as complex and subtle as a recruitment fellowship—a momentous event.

“Finalmente.”
Helen’s smile lengthened. “It’s understood that certain courses will have to rotate.” Faculty desperately desired new colleagues they could count on out here. It was one thing to entice a new Ph.D. here for a year’s stint to tack on to their resume; quite another to get one to settle for years in the hab. “It’s also agreed that we drop the idea of alternating semesters.”

“You’re quite sure that’s agreed?” A pet idea of the humanities faculty, to double-up on courses one semester, the next semester back to Earth. No good for student access.

“Semerena and Hamilton quashed it.”

The pile worm biologist, and the Centrist. An unholy alliance had saved the day, thanks as usual to Helen’s maneuvering. Dylan sighed with relief. “Helen, I can always count on you.”

“And the Antarctic Studies program.” West Antarctic agriculture, Earth’s southernmost
fondillo
offered their final breadbasket before the seas boiled off. And thus, fought over by forces from six continents. “Enough departments have put in courses to do it.”

“Excellent.” A new major program to advertise, without costing an extra cent.

“There’s just one more thing…”

In the corner Nora’s window blinked faster. Meanwhile, across the room, Gil had finished his last suit test. He stood and stretched, flexing his limbs of sausage roll.

Helen cleared her throat. “It has been alleged that the student social clubs have secret affiliation with terrestrial extracollegiate organizations. A specific violation of our charter. The faculty committee on student life is obliged to investigate.” Helen’s face took on the look of a pedestrian coming upon a decomposing skunk.

Alan must have hit the warpath after all. Dylan’s heart sank. “Surely the matter will take time to sort out. To hear all sides fairly.”

“Time, which our hardworking faculty can ill afford.”

“The alumni, of course, have their opinions.” Some returned every year for the Frontera Circuit.

“The alumni are your job. We expect you to keep this sort of roadkill off our plate.”

“Claro,”
he hastily replied.

“Thanks, Dylan. We know we can count on you.” Helen’s window closed.

Nora blinked in. “We’ve had a fire.”

“A fire? As in, combustion?”

“Carbon combustion,” she confirmed. “Cigarette on a carpet in Huron.”

Smoking was not just forbidden; all forms of carbon combustion were out, anywhere in the hab, with the exception of the sealed lower level of the Mound. “You know the rule.”

“Expulsion,” she agreed. “If you confirm.”

“Expulsion.” A lifetime opportunity lost, all for a cig ground underfoot.
“¿Qué más?”

“We’ve got ultra.”

“What!”

“Dillie, look what I can do.”
By the window to the stark, unchanging moonscape, Gil had turned on his side doing one-finger pushups.

“Just one, in a custom residence. Not a dorm,” Nora assured him.
“Gracias a Dios.”

“A—an
ultraphyte
?” Dylan sputtered. “Where there’s one, there’s a hundred.”

“We melted the residence, but found no others.” Her voice deepened. “The Dyer girl got it past quarantine.”

The one with the pearls. The omniprosthete from the White House doctors. The suitemate of Soli’s daughter.
Qué lío.
“Past quarantine? How on earth?”

“We’re grilling her.”

“First mosquitoes, now ultra?”

Nora shrugged. “Invasives are this year’s thing.”

“But a terror agent—this means a report to Homeworld Security.”

“A private report,” she assured him. “An isolated incident. Sharon signed off on it.”

He sighed with relief. Then his eyes flew open. “Sharon?” he asked suspiciously. “What’s Sharon got to do with it?”

“She’s got clearance for ultra. She certified the residence site clean…”

“I see.”

“… and took custody of the specimen.”

“No way. Vaporize it.” Custody indeed.

“Will do,” agreed Nora. “One more thing. We’ve had Ebola, printed out with illegal toyworld downloads.”

“Are the kids okay?” Ebola virus could turn the body into blood pudding. “Anyone critical?”

“Three cases, all recovering, thanks to quick EMS work. Nick diagnosed the first one.” Where would they be without student volunteers. Maybe when Hamilton became mayor, he’d get the village to fund a backup for Eppie.

Gil was now playing moonpong, bouncing himself from floor to ceiling. Not as safe as it felt—one lost weight, but not momentum. “Nora, hold the rest; I’ll catch you later.”

*   *   *

The Anthradyne 500 enclosed them in eerie stillness, its gigantic wheels splayed like giraffe legs, its nose curved like an anteater’s snout. Overhead, the brilliant green Solarplate banner spread above the starting grid. Charge, breaks, sensors, all checked out in Dylan’s expanded toybox. He heard Gil breathing in the seat behind him, brainstreamed helpfully to his helmet. Getting himself and Gil through this alive, that was the thing. He frowned. Stop thinking like Clare, he told himself. The key thing was to give Gil the time of his life. What else was the point of living? He grinned. “Sure you’re up to this, Gil? Thousand klicks an hour?”

“I can’t wait. Your seniors would love it; I’ll sponsor their trip.”

To head off that notion, Dylan hurriedly blinked some buttons in his expanded toybox. The seat grabbed his rear, accelerating smoothly as the car glided out. All control was brainstream, indistinguishable from the simulator. His head and limbs were strapped in completely, with the finest tolerance to withstand whatever g force.

The track was empty, for Dylan had rented twenty minutes. The horizon looked eerily close, like the edge of a cliff that kept receding. At left they passed the Icarus flight hall, a tourist landmark. At right, for the carnally challenged, rose the 666, the Equus, Macdonald’s Farm, Dolphin Dayz, and the ultimate Z. Only on the moon were zooparks legal. The greatest off-world playground. Nobody, he hoped, in this round-the-clock entertainment zone would take notice of a couple of guys streaking past in a modest Anthradyne 500.

The long straight led out toward the razor-sharp horizon. Dylan let her briefly reach a thousand, as promised. “You okay there, Gil?” Of course he saw all Gil’s vitals from pulse to pupil size displayed there in the box next to his own.

“Just fine, Dillie. Whee—wait till my toymakers all see us!”

That was not the plan; “no cameras,” Gil had promised. Dylan sighed as he took the speed down and eased into the first turn. The turn banked nearly vertical, the track rearing right while the universe opened out to their left. Over his left shoulder hung the blue earth, its black solar blotches obscured by lunar haze, and somewhere in between hung Frontera, where a college hummed busily and Clare waited in his church—

Gil shrieked. “Dillie, we’re falling off! Off into space!”

“Verdad.”
Dylan grinned. “Just hope Hamilton’s right, there’s a Firmament to catch us.” Easing out of the turn, he warned, “Next comes the chicane.” One devilish turn after another.

“Oh, the loop, Dillie. You can’t miss the loop.”

The loop loomed ahead, its bright curve cut aslant by a harsh lunar shadow. Drive up and let the whole universe revolve around you.

“Sorry, the loop’s out for maintenance.” Even with full protection Dylan was not about to drive the Toynet CEO at five g’s. “But you’ll love the chicane. It’s worse than Monaco.” Dylan knew the turns well, and he could make them feel more dangerous than they were.

The track turned left. Dylan jumped the curve, the red border line sailing below. Even so, the maneuver yanked the car hard, a sharp contrast to the moon’s lack of g’s. The car tipped slightly, despite its splayed wheels. Before it fully recovered, the track switched right. Glowing towers veered across one way, then the other, a dizzying pull each way. From behind, Gil laughed. This part was the most fun.

At last done with turns, they headed into the final long straight. The car accelerated gently, the towers streaking past ever faster until they mingled like so much confetti. The nearest thing to flying; even space flight paled by comparison, once you got past liftoff.