The Highest Frontier (41 page)

“It’s better than nothing. If you help me, I’ll help you build audience.”

Mfumo frowned dubiously. “Warmed-over convention rhetoric. Was there anything you said with a hook?” She scanned Jenny’s short speech. “What’s this about ultraphytes moving genes into pile worms?”

“I just tossed that out, for people to think about.” As if they wanted to think.

“Is it really true?” The reporter paused in thought. “Ultraphytes putting genes into worms. Does that mean they can transform Earth creatures into ultraphytes?”

Jenny thought this over. “I guess you could say that. The worms would be part ultra. That’s not new; it’s in the literature, from Semerena’s lab.”

“Maybe, but it’s the first I’ve heard it put that way. Interesting. Why don’t you give me a piece on ultra-worms? You can use the chance to set your record straight.”

*   *   *

Friday morning she was back at slanball, prepping for Sunday’s game hosting Beijing. She browsed for her piece on HuriaNews. It came up, exactly what she’d told Mfumo, about number hundred thousand down the headline list.

That afternoon she worked with Mary on the plants in her cottage greenhouse. Their homework was to make the plant laughter respond to an RNA switch detecting an airborne semiochemical. The students had to inoculate different RNA switches into different seedlings. Where was Anouk, Jenny wondered; the
parisienn
e was normally punctual.

In her toybox Anouk’s window opened. “Sorry I’ll be late. I’m in trouble,” she explained. “I got caught tapping you-know-who.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Just stop already. You know it’s no good.”

“I won’t get caught again. Jenny—this means life or death for your American election. If only people knew the truth…” A lot of good that would do.

Mary held up the vial of RNA switch. The pale violet tube had been printed out by Professor Abaynesh’s machine. “RNA switch for
Arabidopsis sapiens
. Turned on by jasmonate.” Jasmonate was a common plant semiochemical; some kinds were used for pest control. If the RNA switch worked, a whiff of jasmonate would “turn on” the plant laughter.

Jenny took out the plant injector, a flexible tube that fitted to the RNA vial. “Here, we need to inject twenty of these plants.” Twenty replicates of the scrawny little mustard plants; she felt tired of them already. “And then another twenty for controls.” If only she could do orchids instead. Mary did not seem to mind all the replicates. A good lab partner, she worked alongside Jenny, dutifully injecting all the plants.

At last the seedlings were done. The accelerated strain would grow up in a week. She stretched her back, then pulled up one leg and the other, loosening her stiff calves.

“Twenty more seedlings.”

Jenny frowned at Mary. “Really? What for?”

“Reverse control.”

“Reverse control? What does that mean?”

“Experiments need a reverse control.”

Jenny blinked her window for Abaynesh to ask what her
compañera loca
was getting at. But the professor did not respond. It was late afternoon; she was probably picking up Tova for dinner. Jenny shrugged. “Be my guest,” she told Mary, and put out twenty extra pots.

*   *   *

Before dinner Jenny stopped at the Café de la Paix to help Tom slice carrots. She had to have Friday dinner with her team, but she had a free moment now, and would again later after closing. Tom in his white coat and
toque
was carving turnips into roses.
“Guao,”
said Jenny, “you could carve anything.”

He placed one in her hand. “Did you see Semerena on ToyNews?”

“Really?” Annoyed at Clive, she’d quit browsing ToyNews. She blinked for the morning clip. There was Clive, spliced next to Swiss-born chemist Wolf Semerena, who taught down the hall from Abaynesh. Long sandy hair in a ponytail, hunched forward slightly, in a “Devil’s Tramping Ground” T-shirt from his stint at North Carolina.

“Dr. Semerena,” Clive was asking ingratiatingly. Hairstyle twelve, she guessed, the one for “We’ve discovered something.” Clive asked, “Can you describe for us your new finding on ultra?” A finding buried in the research literature for two years.

“Sofort,”
agreed the professor. “The ultraphyte gene sequence into the genome reading frame of numerous coding sequences of
Neanthes succinea
becomes integrated.” His Swiss-accented southern English was intelligible with effort. “Of course, the sequence integration requires RNA conversion to DNA by an ultra-encoded ribonucleic acid transfer-integrase.”

Clive nodded intelligently. “In other words, ultraphytes can turn Earth creatures into ultra?”

Jenny looked at Tom. “That’s what HuriaNews said.” No credit for the source.

Tom smiled. “It’s nice for Semerena. A plug for his research.”

“
Claro.
I’m looking forward to his class next term.”

“So, you’ll be back for dessert?”

“Unless EMS gets busy.” Jenny was first on call, the one night she didn’t have to get up early. “Then Saturday you’ve got Homefair, and I’ve got optional practice with Yola.” The team would be short, with Ken and the Pezarkars out for Yom Kippur. “It’s always something.”

Tom grinned. “That’s what we’re here for. At least I’ll see you for dinner Saturday.”

Jenny winced. “Sorry, I promised Anouk I’d go with her to Monte Carlo Night. Instead of her DIRG.”

His face fell. He pulled back, about to close into himself. “Never mind. Of course, you need your First Lady.”

Dios mío,
he’s jealous, she thought. “It’s not like that.” Anouk was
chula
all right; the sort of First Lady her handlers would pick, minus the mental baggage. “Anouk is my sister. We even have to take Mary.”

He looked up. “Mary Dyer? Is that wise?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mary … doesn’t always follow what’s going on.”

“We’ll look out for her. I’ll bring my own drink; and Mary drinks only salt. Look, I’ll just stay long enough to play my taxes. Then I’ll come back to the café for dessert.”

*   *   *

Saturday afternoon was
un lío
with all the motor cars roaring around the track at the Frontera Circuit. The circuit ringed the northern cap, beyond the Mound, just below Lake Erie. The track was dry and dusty, as the rain had been turned off for the past week; something about the fall harvest. Jenny missed the daily afternoon rainbows.

Four visiting clubs from Paris, Rio, Santa Monica, and Mare Crisium brought their Renaults, BMWs, and Toyotas, the low-slung cars gunning their motors to make as deep a roar as they could. Frontera’s lead drivers were Fritz Hoffman in his padded Red Bull suit, and Rafael in sleek black. They waved to a screaming crowd of lace-dragging students, neon-feathered tourists, and what looked to be the entire male population of Mount Gilead.

“What a track—none of those tiresome chicanes.”

“Feh—no test of a real driver.”

“Nothing but raw speed.”

“At half a g—watch your spin.”

The track rose up into the curve of the cap, about three hundred meters off radius; not quite half a g, but you felt the difference.

Rafael drove up into pole position, based on Ferrari’s winning season the year before. Soon all the cars zoomed by, careening around the curves, especially those unaccustomed to low g. All went well until the inevitable first crackup, a BMW spun out of control.

Jenny and the medibot converged on the scene; Charlie tagged along, his first run as a trainee. Fumes of melted amyloid choked her.
“Mask up,”
she warned.

The window frame had crumpled; no way the door would open. Breathing through her mask, Jenny eyed the door. Point, point, she selected, then blinked the virtual “jaws of life.” The amyloid picked up her brainstream, melting through the lines from point to point. The crumpled door separated like a jigsaw piece. She began to lift; it came up an inch, then Charlie added his weight.

“What’s your name?” No response from the driver. He was breathing, though the blood pooled around him. Jenny gave a quick glance at Charlie, to see how he took it. Charlie looked
bien.
She went ahead and scoped the driver. “Charlie, can you get his legs out?” At length they extricated the driver, flew off with the medibot, and introduced him to the amenities of the Barnside.

She and Charlie had scarcely returned to the track when another car skidded into the lake. After the third crackup, Frank Lazza finally took over. Jenny returned to her cottage exhausted, and fell asleep in an instant.

She was awakened by a call from Anouk. “Rafael won again!” Anouk was flushed with excitement. “You should have seen—he beat the Brazilian by half a car length. Are you ready for the Mound?”

Jenny blinked the Babynet window for Mary. She and Mary soon arrived at Anouk’s cottage for the great fashion debut. For her own outfit, Anouk had outdone herself in a dress that fell from her shoulder like a waterfall. It covered all her body, from neck to ankle, but the fabric flexed with every curve. Her silken scarf flowed around her hair, then over her shoulder and down to her waist. The scarf’s color shifted continuously, timed through a rainbow of greens, pinks, and golds.

Anouk pointed to Jenny’s feet. “
Enfin,
off with those horrid laced things.”

Jenny felt disoriented, the scenes of mangled amyloid still spinning through her head. But things changed as she let Anouk slide silver ballet flats onto her feet. Then a sheath of silver enveloped her, with orchids parading up to her shoulder, a never-ending line of unique cultivars. A silvery scarf that made her look bundled up for winter; yet the fabric was so thin, it felt like nothing, like being draped in sheer light. In the toyroom Jenny watched as her silvery form turned slowly around. She smiled. “Mama should see this.”

For Mary, Anouk had done a white sheath with sunflowers, a wholesome country-girl look. With all else covered, from feet to hood, Mary’s face shone.

“Merveilleuse,”
breathed Anouk. “She looks…”

A timeless face. Almost Monroe.

“You’re quite prepared?”

“Of course.” Jenny had her drink and her scanscope in her purse.

Outside, Rafael drew up silently in his car, polished like a mirror. The three dresses glinted in its sheen.

“Congratulations,” Jenny told him.

Rafael stood as straight as possible and bowed from the waist. “A close finish, but we honored Frontera. And now, the honor of three enchanting ladies.”

Mary tripped on her dress, but Jenny helped her up and into the car. Anouk sat up front and chattered away in French with Rafael. The car glided effortlessly up Buckeye Trail, steam puffing out the exhaust. There at the north end glittered the entrance to the Mound, pyrotechnic red, blue, and green. Attendants handed a glowing feather to each guest.

“Entering Mound Security zone. Toynet worldwide access closed. What happens at the Mound, stays at the Mound.”

Jenny’s windows all abruptly shuttered, save for Mary and Anouk, and the Mound security and game stations. Casinos always discouraged outside distractions. The Mound was entirely underground, no windows, and every tenth person would be plainclothes. Overhead pounded the hooves of flying horses, their Shawnee riders calling to battle. Below, Ferrari brothers strutted in their black suits and XX earrings, as did their black-suited guests from their brother clubs at other schools. Many Begonias had come, along with unfamiliar
chicas
from the other schools, most in moonholes and midriffs. But heads turned for the three scarved ladies. New windows popped up, begging acquaintance. Like magic, suited young gentlemen approached with punch and margaritas.

Enrico, from Hamilton’s class, offered a glass. “Perrier,” he assured her.

Jenny smiled, accepting the drink. She casually set it down, replacing it with the vial from her purse, which morphed into a glass. She held the new glass covered by her hand, a trick long practiced in high school.

“Your speech was
estupendo,
” Enrico told her. “I sure wish your aunt were at the top of the ticket.”

That would have been tough, all right. But at this point, Aunt Meg was lucky enough to be the country’s first conjoined running mate. More than luck, of course, knowing her aunt.

“Aristotle is
chulo,
don’t you think?” Enrico added. “Even the ‘History of Animals,’ about sponges and all. ‘With animals a change of action follows a change of circumstance, and a change of character follows a change of action.’ I never knew that, how hens could behave like cocks and so on.”

Jenny nodded. “All politics is a field of animal behavior.”

“Do you think so? I’d like to take a Life class sometime.”

She scanned the betting stations. The blackjack table, with the cards laid out in a pie wedge. Anouk’s eyes gleamed, and she headed for the table, trailing Rafael behind her. Jenny took Mary by the hand.

“Looking for something?” asked Enrico.

“Roulette.”

Enrico nodded. “The purest game of all. Nothing clever; it’s all between you and Providence.” He steered her to the table, a crowded spot. The wheel itself was obscured by all the guests leaning over and laughing at where the ball came to rest.

As the wheel came to a halt, Jenny eyed a number. The window came up in her box, and she blinked to brainstream her bet.

Behind the table, the croupier looked up. “May I help you?”

She looked him in the eye. “I placed my bet.” Fifty thousand dollars, her “optional” quarterly play.

“Momento.”
The dealer stepped behind and brought forward the manager, a short dark-haired man with an obsequious air.

“No trouble, no trouble, Ms. Ramos Kennedy,” murmured the manager. “You may place your bet.”

The crowd fell silent. Some of their faces showed they’d never seen a bet of this size, whereas others smirked as if to say this was nothing new to them. The wheel turned, faster, its numbers spinning out of sight. The ball rolled the other way, gradually slowing, until the numbers passed one by one. The ball fell at last, just one slot past the number Jenny had picked. The crowd gasped.