Jenna Starborn (5 page)

Much less happy were the hours spent working off some punishment that a professor or headmaster or residential advisor deemed appropriate for misconduct or high spirits. The youngest miscreants were given jobs such as cleaning the toilets and scrubbing the kitchens; the older students, particularly those who excelled in the sciences, were generally assigned the task of stoking the generators. These were located in a central building near the middle of the grim campus; they supplied power to every one of the dorms and classrooms and research facilities at the school.

They were also frightening. There were a dozen different generators, all run on different fuels and principles, which had been installed over the decades as theories of power production and consumption were revised. Many of these old, and even ancient, models could be found installed as primary energy sources on planets throughout the Allegiance. For a strange thing had happened once the high-grade citizens had descended a few generations from their robber baron forebears: They had grown lax and suspicious of technology. They knew it had spawned their own wealth and position, but they did not like tinkering with it and facilitating any fresh spate of change and improvement. They had the current patents and equipment, used throughout the Allegiance. They were not interested in having their own systems superseded. Thus technological advancement was discouraged unless it occurred in a few carefully controlled environments—the only environments, to tell the truth, where there was enough money to fund the necessary research.

Thus, the students at Lora learned how to operate every type of generator, even the obsolete. We did, every couple of years, have a chance to build new ones when some modern model was sanctioned for general use. Since many of us were being trained to become solo engineers and tech support personnel on frontier planets, space stations, and starships, this hands-on experience with the school's machinery was an important part of every student's curriculum.

But Harriet and I were too young to have had much experience with the large, noisy, complex, and variable machines. I, of course, had played around my aunt's generators more times than I could count, and I loved the interplay of power and reaction contained within the huge silver shells. But Harriet—a math genius, but a poor hand at basic science—was terrified of their noise, emissions, unpredictability, and might. Whenever some alleged infraction sent us down to the generator rooms for the evening, her hands would shake and her voice would tremble as we walked the rounds, checking on output.

It was my one real chance to be stronger than she. I would walk beside her, step for step, taking my own measurements and explaining what they meant. Then I would tell her what each machine was capable of, why it had been built, what its drawbacks were, and where it was most likely to be installed.

I was particularly enamored of the new Arkady Core Converters, which relied on muon-catalyst fusion, and any of the generators that fed off the relatively rare dubronium fuel. I could talk about them for hours, though Harriet would rarely listen that long.

Once I finally stopped speaking, she would sigh. “You're so smart, Jenna. I'll never understand these machines like you do.”

“You don't have to. You'll become the logistician for some shipping company, or the actuary for one of the colonizing organizations. If we have six thousand people planning to emigrate to—to—Mazilachistan” (making up the planet name just to hear her laugh) “and three thousand of them are over the age of thirty, and three thousand are under the age of thirty, how many can be expected to survive the journey?”

“But you would need to know so much more than their ages,” she said gaily, entering the spirit of the game. “What's the incidence of disease among this population, and what's the general lifespan of nontravelers from the same star system, and what percentage is married and what percentage is not—because, isn't it strange, a married person tends to live longer than an unmarried one—”

“More to live for,” I guessed.

“Happier,” she said, sighing again. “Just think! To have someone love you, every day of your life. Surely that would make you strive to have the longest life possible?”

“Though I don't think that's why Mr. Wellstat has lived so long,” I said, and we both began to giggle. Mr. Wellstat appeared to be a hundred and forty years old. He was the gloomiest, sourest, bitterest teacher at the academy, and by all accounts, he and his wife hated each other.

“Perhaps he has lived so long merely to spite her,” Harriet suggested. “He does not want to give her the satisfaction of being alive without him.”

“There you have it! Real life once again helps us to interpret dry statistics.”

Talking in such a way, we would make our rounds for the appointed number of hours; and even the punishment did not seem so bad.

I cannot even remember what infraction it was that sent us to the generator rooms late one night—a tardy paper, a missed meal, an impertinent reply to a teacher. Yet there we were, once again, Harriet and I, making the long, noisy rounds between the generators. The upperclassmen had been at work there earlier in the day, I could tell, for the Arkady Core Converter had been partially shut down and its protective covers were pried off so the students could study some of the interior mechanisms.

“This is odd,” Harriet said, peering into its open cavity. “Look at the light lancing through here. It looks—alive, almost. It's writhing, twisting on and around itself like the craziest kind of snake.”

I glanced up from the clipboard where I was recording measurements. “Well, you shouldn't be able to see that at all,” I said. “The shield should be up.”

She put a hand out as if to stroke the spout of sapphire flame. “Is it safe to reattach the shield while the generator's still running?”

I nodded. “This one, anyway. Do you want to put it in place?”

“In a minute. I want to watch it for a while.”

I smiled. “You will even yet be seduced by science,” I said, and moved down the great aisle.

The fission generators had been toyed with, too, as I saw immediately, and the water in their tanks glowed with an eerie blue light. Ahead of me I could see the cold fusion tanks sparkling with their own incessant output of power.

“Is it even safe for us to be here?” I wondered aloud, turning to look for Harriet. But she was no longer behind me. She had skipped ahead to the early-model Delta Five reactor and was bending over some open cover that I could not see. “Harriet?” I called, a thread of alarm in my voice. “That one's not safe to touch. Harriet!”

Who knows what combination of colors and magic drew her in? Always before this she had been too frightened of the great tanks to need supervision; always before this they had been properly shielded, and no one would have needed to be afraid. I heard my voice calling her name what seemed like a hundred times in the few seconds it took me to run to her, but I knew before I arrived that I was too late. She pulled her head back from whatever sight had entranced her, and she gave me her usual luminous smile; and perhaps I imagined it, but her skin was already dangerously radiant, her cheekbones and her outstretched hands incandescent with absorbed fire. I felt my words choke down, I felt my heart coalesce.

“Jenna,” she said, happily enough, “I feel so strange.”

 

 

I
t took her four days to die, and they would not let me see her. Although Lora Tech was not an institution celebrated for its compassion, I know they did what they could for her, because I was two doors down from her, being treated for a lesser exposure to ionizing radiation. I saw the parade of doctors, nurses, and specialists who clustered around her and attempted to salvage the burned skin, the altered cells. But there was nothing to do. The dosage had been too strong. She suffered, she slept, and she died.

Her body was cremated, but memorial services were to be held two days later. This was because I was not the only one shocked by Harriet's sudden terrible death; I was not the only student who had missed classes on those four days while Harriet lingered, idling along as if enraptured by the scenery on the bleak, dark road to death. She had had many friends. Not one of them could bear to believe she was gone from us.

I returned to my classes for those two days. What else was there for me to do? Those two nights I worked in my room, trying to catch up on the assignments I had missed and unwilling to ask any of the other students for help. I could not bear either their sympathy or their silence. I would rather fail every class than attempt to speak aloud.

But as the night grew later and the silence unbearable, I began to shake and rock myself on the chair where I sat. Tears formed in my eyes and fell, unbidden, down my cheeks. My hands wrapped together of their own accord, squeezing so tightly that I could feel my own bones doing damage to myself, and yet I could not unlock them. With my feet, I pushed myself away from the desk where I sat, and fell to my knees on the hard floor.

“Oh, Goddess,” I groaned, “for I know you are there, and listening, pray guard over that one soul with special care. Take every last atom of that precious being, and bless it, and return it to this earth or some other world with its own fresh and lively purpose. Plant her in the gardens of Karian where she can burst delighted into spring. Set her into the heart of a nightingale so she can sing. Fling her into the molten core of your brightest sun, so that she can light up the heavens with her brilliance. I know there is no death—I know we are all one being, the length and breadth of the universe—I know that we are here to be used, and used again, in your grand and glorious design. But Goddess, oh Goddess, make her beautiful and make her happy, for so she was in her time here on Lora, and I miss her—I miss her—I miss her—”

And I collapsed to the floor, and I wept; and not all the theology ever written could console me.

 

 

T
he day after the funeral, Mr. Branson drew me aside as math class was ending. “Jenna,” he said, “I think I may have something for you. Please come to my office.”

So I followed him down the plain hallway to his small, spare office, and sat quietly on the hard-backed chair he offered me. He settled himself behind his narrow black desk.

“A package came for Harriet a few weeks ago,” he said. “A birthday gift from the members of her parish, sent here by her pastor. I was saving it to give to her next month, but—now—so. I have notified her pastor of Harriet's death and asked if he would like the package returned, but he said I should give it instead to some other deserving student. I am sure there is no one Harriet would rather have seen it go to than you.”

“What is it?” I asked, with only the barest flicker of interest.

He smiled slightly. “I don't know. Let's open it together.”

So he rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a small, flat package in a brown box. I opened it to find a handheld electronic recorder.

Mr. Branson's sad face lightened to one of pleasure; clearly, he was more familiar with recent commercial technology than I was. “Ah, an 865 Reeder Recorder/Player,” he said in a low, satisfied voice. “Not an inexpensive gift at all. Well, Jenna, you should be quite pleased.”

I turned the object over to examine it from all angles. It was black and flat, with a silver-gray screen smaller than my palm. It only possessed a few buttons on its sleek front surface, and the slotted openings of its microphone were almost invisible. On the back, it had a few serial ports that I assumed would connect in some fashion to a larger computer terminal.

“What does it do?” I asked.

Mr. Branson took it from me to touch its knobs and dials. “It is merely a lightweight and very transportable recorder that will hold one hundred terrabytes of information. You could leave it on from sunup to sundown every day of your life, record every minute of your waking existence and live to be two hundred, and still you would not have used up all its available memory. You can play back audio, or—see this button here?—have it convert all input to text, which you can have printed out at any terminal. It is small enough that no one will notice if you carry it with you every day, but it is powerful enough to pick up most sounds in a room as large as an auditorium.”

I took it back from him, starting to be pleased myself. “It is a diary,” I said.

Mr. Branson frowned slightly. “Well—more useful than that, surely. You can record your class lectures, listen to them at night, and print them out so you can study the hard copies. When you take a job, you can use your Reeder to record your employer's instructions to make sure you do not misunderstand—or, even, have a kind of proof of what he's said, in case later the two of you disagree—”

“Yes, that would be very helpful,” I said politely. I touched the switch that activated the microphone. “I will make certain I bring this with me to mathematics class. I am sure I will benefit from hearing your lectures more than once.”

Mr. Branson gave his dismal smile. “I would be honored to be included in your daily recordings,” he said.

I hit the playback button, and our most recent words floated out into the air between us. I could not keep a faint smile from forming on my face; what a fun and silly device to have, after all!

“Thank you so much for thinking of me,” I said formally. “I will treasure this always—because it was meant for Harriet, and because you were so kind as to give it to me.”

 

 

A
fter that, it was rare that I went anywhere without my little recorder, though I did not leave it on constantly to chronicle every minute of my unexciting existence. I took it with me to classes, and found that using it to reinforce the original lecture improved my understanding of everything my teachers had said. I also began to use it to summarize my days, nearly every night speaking softly into it to record my impressions of the world around me.