The Highest Frontier, page 38
“Naval Observatory? The residence of the vice president.”
“The Creep has ultra syndrome. Like Mary,” Anouk explained. “Security finds ultras at his residence—and his West Wing office. They even found one under the Teddy Roosevelt desk.”
“¡No puede ser!”
“Is it so surprising? When one is so obsessed with attacking a thing—”
“But not the West Wing!”
“Come on, Jenny, you know presidents can do anything; they sneak chicas half their age into the Oval Office. Your own great-grandfather sneaked elephants.”
Jenny put her hands to her ears.
“Sorry. But look, this is why Guzmán finally dumped the Creep, n’est-ce pas? Won’t your candidate like to know?”
39
So the Earth’s foremost superpower was run behind the scenes by an ultra nut like Mary, with hands that crept away like cells that might take off on their own. And look at his likely replacements. The vice presidential debate was on Thursday in Wisconsin. The candidates would probably stick this year; it was unlikely that the Creep could oust the governor of California. Still, Jenny thought, never underestimate him.
“Senator Shaak,” Clive asked, “do you believe the electorate will support a candidate under investigation for child pornography?”
Shaak had the dark suit, the Kennedy haircut, and the smile down pat. “Clive, as you know, public officials are always the target of insinuations and mudslinging, as well as nuisance lawsuits. The point is what we do in office. The last time Unity was in power, we passed the toughest child protection act in our nation’s history.” Rosa, again, another thing she’d got done her first year in office.
“And Governor Akeda,” Clive asked in turn. “Do you believe the electorate will support a candidate who can’t keep ultra off our shores?”
Aunt Meg smiled, and Aunt El kept decorously quiet. “As you know, Clive, ultraphytes have now spread through all fifty states, and to countries on all continents. But of course, that’s no excuse for us to give up. I’ve activated my state’s National Guard to protect our homeland and drive ultra into the sea.”
Not much new from either would-be vice president. It was especially depressing to hear her aunt reduced to platitudes. Jenny wished she’d spent the time on her homework about the colonial Spanish massacres in Cuba.
The next day, curious, she checked what HuriaNews made of the debate. Since her interview about the ultraphytes, she’d found that Lane Mfumo often had a different take. To her surprise, HuriaNews actually reported some parts of the debate that Jenny had missed on ToyNet. An audience member had asked the candidates about voter fraud; about reports that ToyVote could be penetrated. “A study showed that ToyVote tallies of votes could be intercepted, decoded, and altered without detection.”
To that, Shaak had said, “Unity has always demanded a physical record of every vote. Unfortunately, the current administration abolished the physical vote requirement, and not all states maintain it. Carrillo’s first act as president will be to reinstate the requirement of a physical record for every vote.”
Aunt Meg, of course, had a different view. “To preserve our freedom, we must stop voter fraud. Why, in some of our polling places, in the old days”—before Centrists won three terms—“security was so lax even an ultra could come in and vote.” Laughter from the audience. “But then ToyVote instituted a multiple redundant system of checks. They make absolutely sure that only qualified American citizens can vote, and vote only once.”
The argument was an old one. Perhaps signing a book in uranyl acetate had some advantages. But why had the entire exchange gone missing in ToyNews? Clive’s office did not respond to her call, but Mfumo did.
“ToyNews has a new policy,” Mfumo told her. “Their policy is they will report no stories on voter fraud within the six months preceding an election.”
“What? Why not?”
“To avoid being manipulated into undermining confidence in the election results. That’s what they say.”
It was true that months of challenges ate into the term of many elected officials. “But still, that’s censorship.”
“Self-censorship. HuriaNews offers a different view.” For those who listened. “Say, Jenny, have you got anything more on ultra? Your last interview played well.”
* * *
She was helping set the tables for Tom’s Friday night crowd at the café; Uncle Dylan had a Board committee meeting. “What do you think, Tom,” she asked. “What do you think of having to go in and record your vote in public?”
Tom brought out the pitchers of fresh flowers. “That should decrease turnout.”
“That’s how they did it in colonial Virginia.”
“Back then only a few white landowners voted.” He adjusted a salad fork here, a butter plate there.
“Imagíne. The Creep has ultra syndrome.” Jenny shook her head. “Anouk says I should tell Glynnis. But Sid is no better—he’s just been charged with running child porn. Everyone knew that already; how could they have picked such a person?”
“Beats me. How are your orchids?”
“Muy bien. Well, this is the last week for Father Clare’s campaign. After the Rapture game, I can spend afternoons knocking on the last few doors—”
Tom crossed his arms and slammed his elbows on the table. “What’s got into you? Is that all it is—election this, election that?”
She stopped short. “What do you mean?”
“I thought you were into chemistry. You haven’t mentioned the daily molecule all week.”
“Oh, right.” There was always another one.
“Like, the one I posted?”
“I see. I’m sorry.” Her face went hot. Qué lío, what a thing to miss. “Well, this is just till November, then it’s done.” For this year.
“It feels like forever to me.” Tom looked away. It had been a while since he looked like that, one of his moods; she’d forgotten. Finally he looked back. “What did your mother say about me?”
Her eyelids fluttered. “What do you mean?”
“I just want to know. She was here; she saw me. What did she say?”
“Nothing much.”
“She must have said something. What?”
Her hands uneasily gripped the tablecloth. “She said you were very nice.”
“What else?”
“She said you would live half as long as—” She broke off.
Tom said nothing. He exhaled thoughtfully. “That’s okay. After I’m gone someday, you can marry a First Lady. And run for president, like your great-grandmother.”
Her lips parted, but she could think of nothing to say. Before she could think, Tom had turned and strode back to the kitchen. The door slammed behind him.
Jenny rushed to the door but it would not open. “Tom!” She pounded the door with her palms. “Tom, open up! It’s not true, it’s not—”
In her toybox, Tom’s window went blank.
* * *
Jenny was devastated. She spent the night waking and crying, then drifting into troubled sleep. The next morning she could not get out of bed. Yola called at last, frantic over her missing the required optional practice. “Jenny, what on earth’s wrong?”
“Feeling sick,” she muttered.
“Well, for heaven’s sake get better. You’re our secret weapon.”
Jenny half smiled. “I know.”
“Get plenty of sleep, remember.”
She lay on her back, watching the blank ceiling. The depth of loss swept over her again. At last she blinked for the mental.
The Monroe smiled as usual, her eyelids fluttering. “Jenny, you’ve been doing so well.”
“How can I get him back?”
Monroe pointed an exquisite finger. “That’s for you to find out. First, love is always a puzzle. But you can work it out.” Her words trailed off in song. “I’m through with love … I’ll never fall again … For I must love you or no one…”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Jenny turned over and back to oblivion.
The next time she roused, it was an EMS call for a grandmother on a farm near the Ohio River. Out the farmhouse window in the afternoon light chorused peepers, while Jenny stroked the woman’s hand and let Charlie take the scanscope readings. Afterward she checked the readings to make sure. “Good job,” she told him.
Charlie beamed. “Hey, maybe I’ll amount to something.”
“Sure you will. You and Tom were great knights, remember. Saved the day.”
He chuckled. “I’ll be a knight again, at the castle.”
The Castle Cockaigne; the great Feast of Fools, the Kearns-Clark twins had promised at midseason. Wednesday next week, just before October Break. Jenny looked forward to it; she’d even looked into her costume. She’d planned on going with Tom. The thought of Tom nearly brought tears again, but she bit her lip and squeezed shut her eyes.
Once the patient was stabilized at the Barnside, Jenny walked home with Charlie. “What’s got into Tom?” Charlie and Tom were best friends, she knew. “Why won’t he answer? He even did that painting—”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Then what’s he mad about?”
Charlie shook his head. “He thinks he’s not good enough for you.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Like a soap toyworld. Look, I’m the judge of that. He will come back, won’t he?”
“Jenny, I’m sure he’ll come back.” Charlie added in a low voice, “And if he doesn’t, there’s other guys.”
She patted his arm. “Thanks, Charlie, you’re a good friend.” Still, she felt hollow inside.
Then suddenly angry. What right did Tom have to make her feel like this—after making up to her for weeks. How could a random-born chico just flip a switch like that? That no-good Y chromosome.
* * *
After checking all her wisdom plants in Reagan Hall, completing Roosevelt’s plans to build a canal in Nicaragua or Panama, and reviewing Coach’s report on the Angels team, Jenny got to bed early enough. Deep into sleep, she was woken once again. To her surprise, it was Yola.
“No EMS—I turned it off,” she objected sleepily. What was Yola doing this late Saturday, with the shuttle to Rapture leaving early Sunday?
Yola looked distracted. “I can’t get him down, and Dean Kwon can’t either. Can you try?”
A Bulls sophomore was stuck atop the cloud ladder, eyes glazed, with a “lost in the toyworld” look. His name was Fritz, one of the dozen Fritzes she knew. He yelled unsteadily, “I’m going to ju-ump!”
By the time Jenny got there, Travis Tharp and three other maintenance men, plus half the Bulls club members, were gathered around the ladder, staring up. Dean Kwon gave Jenny a look. “He’s got relationship issues.”
“Why me?” insisted Jenny.
“You’re the better talker,” said Yola. “I can’t talk at him; I’m too mad.”
“Why not his bros?”
“They tried already. He just climbed higher.”
“Can’t the medibot get him?”
“They’re afraid he’ll jump.”
Jenny searched the name and opened a window. A freckle-faced guy, kind of pale, with eyes unfocused. She blinked for the old talk-them-down script; it had been a few years. “Hey, Fritz, amigo. I’m coming up for a chat, okay?”
“Go away.”
“Okay, amigo, but first can I hear your story? Please? Just the two of us, okay?”
No response. One foot after another, Jenny climbed, shivering in the nighttime breeze. Out in the dark called an owl, a long echoing call, the kind of owl that feasted on peepers. Climbing the cloud ladder at night, with a medibot hovering ominously near, was not where she’d ever planned to be.
“Go on,” encouraged Yola. “He’s let no one else that close.”
At last she neared the rung of his feet. His arms cradled the ladder like a novia. “She’s gone,” he whimpered, voice slurred. “She won’t come back.”
“Hey, I know how you feel.” Jenny opened the scanscope; if he let her snap it round his ankle, he would sober right up. “Hey, amigo, may I just fix your foot, ¿por favor?”
Waiting it out, he finally came to and was coaxed to climb down. In the corner of her box, Jenny checked the time. Three A.M.—just ten hours till jump ball at Rapture.
40
Jenny got out Sunday morning with four hours’ sleep; just soon enough to scarf down some amyloid from her printer and catch the shuttle below. Her head throbbed, but her toybox woke her up when she started to nod. As she filed onto the anthrax lift with her teammates, she avoided looking at Coach at all. Slumping into a seat, she strapped herself down and willed herself asleep again.
The next thing she knew, Fran was nudging her awake. Nearing the Rapture spacehab, Coach gave their final prep talk on the opposition.
He jabbed a finger at the virtual cage hovering in the aisle. “Here’s their center, Number Seven.” A player appeared, like a finger doll. A young man with snub-nosed face and straight blond hair precisely cropped beneath his slancap.
Yola murmured, “Immaculate Conception.”
Jenny frowned, and Ken elbowed Yola in the rib. They could see Coach was in no mood for jokes.
“Number Seven has the highest scoring percentage. Yola, you keep on him.”
“Right, Coach.”
“Downside for Number Seven: To keep his percentage high, he stays down in the cap zone; never tries for a three-pointer.” Coach jabbed again. Another player, broader shoulders, legs a bit splayed. “Fran, you’ve got Number Twenty-one. He’s their outside shooter.”
“You bet, Coach.”
Down the list of players, until at last the goalie, Number 13. “Number Thirteen didn’t give up one goal in his last three games.”
Charlie raised a tentative hand. “This sounds dumb, I know, but, like, where are their chicas?” Division rules mandated an even ratio on the team.
Coach nodded. “As some of you recall from last year, Whitcomb maintains the largest roster allowed, including women. But they never field them.”
“Paulines all,” explained Yola. “You’ll see them on the bench.”
Charlie’s face scrunched, as if trying to grapple with a tough problem. “I know I’m just dense, but where I come from the uber-Christians are, like, ‘chivalrous’ to women. How do they cope with women players?”
Coach pursed his lips, weighing his choice of words.
Fran and Yola smirked at each other. “We’re just pagans,” said Fran. “We don’t count.”
At that Coach frowned. “Enough already. Tough players deserve our respect, no matter what. But believe me, expect no chivalry.”
Kendall let out a breath. “Believe me, we won’t.”
“Goalie Thirteen,” reminded Coach. “He deflects every shot, no matter how fast. How to get past this guy.” His fingers drummed on the clipboard. “Our only chance is surprise.”
Everyone looked at Jenny.
Yola reflected. “I don’t know, Coach. When they find out…”
“No chivalry doesn’t begin to describe it,” finished Kendall.
“I’ll do it,” said Jenny. “For the team.”
* * *
Rapture was a more recent spacehab, built twenty years after Frontera. Twice as large, with a double-thick hull, it had solved substratum overflow and other engineering problems that dogged the older spacehab. As Jenny came up from their entry, her eyes winced in the unaccustomed summer-level light. Twice as bright as the Frontera daylight she’d grown used to, it consumed ten times the power. At the far end of the hab, the casino complex was built as a scale model of ancient Jerusalem, from the Pool of Siloam to the Golden Gate, with the temple arising on the original hill. The Holyland Hotel and Worship Center.
“Holy smoke,” muttered Charlie.
Grinning, Yola punched him in the side. “Wait till you see their cheerleaders.”
The cloud ladder would take forever, Jenny thought. But in fact, there was a motorized amyloid stairway to heaven. In two minutes they were up in the clouds, looking out upon the gleaming rooftops of Jerusalem. The clouds pulsed in artful patterns of white and gold, like the edge of God’s robe.
An enormous crowd was gathering all around the cage. It was the usual regulation size, but the audience tube was set farther out to accommodate a greater number of seats. Nearly every seat was full; an astonishing home turnout. To her relief Jenny located the small brave contingent from Frontera with a Great Bear banner. The Kearns-Clark dad wore a bear suit. As Frontera’s team arrived, he stood up on his seat and growled.
Trumpets blared and echoed from the distant farmlands. As the fanfare soared, angels began to arise from the cloud. Gigantic robed forms, white with gold-edged wings, the virtual spectacle grew till it nearly filled the hab. “Angels from the realms of glory, wing your flight o’er all the earth.…” Their song pounded in Jenny’s ears.
“Cheerleaders,” texted Yola.
The Bears this time wore purple with white stars. The Angels, half again as many as Bears, came out in white trimmed with gold, and their three coaches wore white suit and tie. Women players sat on the bench, bonnets over their slancaps. A priest led the team in a prayer circle.
“Hey Ken,” texted Charlie, “won’t Coach give us a blessing?”
“He won’t,” returned Ken. “Separation of church and game.”
“We’re sunk,” groaned Charlie in Jenny’s ear.
The national anthem; the hovering choir sang it beautifully. Everyone paused to listen. For a moment, Jenny had a prickly feeling that the audience, team, and angels were all part of one something.
At long last Yola faced off with Number 7. The sudden hush took her breath away. Even the heavenly host was still.
The game got off to a good start. Fran and Yola zigzagged all the way down the cage and got in some fancy passes, and David got a straight shot to the goal. David had practiced shooting like crazy all week, and his hard work paid off.
