Anthem's Fall Page 6

  “Hey,” she called in a friendly tone. She trotted down the steps and came to a stop a few above him. “I agreed with what you said in there.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said with a courteous smile. She was good-looking and around his age. Her glasses added an enlightened impression to her thin face, keen green eyes, and slender shoulders. “It’s never easy to take on paid researchers and their prized data with so petty a notion as morality.”

  She nodded, her wavy hair pulled back and her manner considerate. “Ethics aren’t quite concrete enough for most of the scientists I’ve worked with. They’d rather work with numbers and figures. But morality scares me, too, considering it comes down to one person’s opinion.”

  Ryan laughed in agreement and held out a hand. “Ryan Craig.”

  “I remember,” she said. “Kristen Jordan.”

  Chapter Four

  Ryan

  The doors to the many nearby halls opened all at once, and the deserted quad filled with students as they departed their early afternoon lectures. A promenade of undergraduates carrying backpacks and hefty textbooks walked across the path below the stairway. Ryan regarded Kristen Jordan amid the bustle.

  “I’m getting the impression you’ve worked with many scientists?”

  “You could say that.” Kristen smirked wearily and looked over the heads of the Columbia student body. “You hinted in there that researchers aren’t concerned about the repercussions of their technologies. What did you mean by that?”

  “Well,” Ryan said. “The dangers of any new technology are self-evident aren’t they?”

  Kristen shrugged. “I’m not sure if a technology’s potential danger is ever self-evident. Like any knowledge or tool, a technology is only as dangerous as the people that control it.”

  “Well, sure, but technology is a form of power, and from what I’ve seen of the world, power is always a dangerous thing—the wrong minds are always drawn to it. By itself a technology might not be hazardous, but inevitably it will be manipulated by people with a hunger for power, whether that takes the form of money or who knows what else.”

  “And the creators?” Kristen asked, her voice hesitant.

  “Useful technologies have a nasty way of slipping from their creator’s grasp.” Ryan noticed the shadows under her earnest eyes. “I take it you are a researcher of some kind? Are you a research assistant or a graduate student?”

  Ryan stepped aside for a group exiting the auditorium. A quiet moment passed between them.

  “Sorry.” Kristen turned to face him, her expression distracted. “I’m a graduate researcher. Genetics.”

  “You study genetics? At Columbia?”

  Kristen nodded.

  “Then,” Ryan paused, eyeing her in doubt. “Do you work with the Vatruvian cell?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah, now I see,” Ryan said. Behind this girl’s pretty eyes and amiable disposition had to be genuine genius, a truly gifted mind. He had read somewhere recently that thousands and thousands of people apply each semester to the Vatruvian cell doctorate programs. This girl, Kristen Jordan, was one of the two or three that must have made the cut. Ryan pulled out his cell phone and checked to make sure there was time before his Cultural Anthropology class.

  “Do you want to grab a coffee?” Ryan asked. “I have class soon, but an opportunity to talk with a Vatruvian cell scientist is too rare to pass up.”

  Kristen smiled with a touch of grim humor. “Only on the condition that we don’t talk about the Vatruvian cell. Sorry, but I spend way too much time stewing over that damn microscopic thing these days.”

  They descended the stone stairs together and joined the flow of young people heading to the south end of campus. Students in plaid shirts, hooded sweatshirts, sneakers, and blue jeans surrounded Ryan and Kristen. The season was on the cusp of change, and a pleasant bite of chill touched the air. A clean breeze rolled across Manhattan from the west, rustling through the turning leaves overhead and across the meticulously cut lawns.

  “So I have to ask,” Ryan said as he sidestepped a brunette blathering into her cell. “Where did you go to undergrad?”

  “MIT.”

  “And you graduated . . . ?”

  “Two years ago with a degree in biology. I’ve been in New York working with Professor Vatruvia since. What year are you?”

  “Sophomore.”

  Kristen looked up at him casually. “So you’re twenty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ve got you by a year.”

  Ryan slowed his pace momentarily. “Shouldn’t you still be in undergrad?”

  “Um.” Kristen gave a small courteous laugh. “Technically speaking, yeah. I skipped more than my fair share of grades back in the day.”

  “Right. And you enjoyed being the youngest kid in your high school graduating class?”

  “Oh yeah, graduated at sixteen. Nothing like it,” Kristen said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Although I then burned through undergrad in two years, and that was mostly by my own choosing. So I don’t know. I guess on some level I’m hurrying to get somewhere in life.”

  “Where?” Ryan asked, noticing the sharp honesty of her words.

  Kristen nodded. “Good point.”

  “Well, it has clearly worked out for you. Landing a spot researching the Vatruvian cell is a status few can claim.”

  “Creating the Vatruvian cell—I was on the team before it even had a name. But we had an agreement.” Kristen held up a finger. “No talking about it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Did you spend a lot of time preparing for that debate? I can’t imagine going against a lobbyist in front of that crowd was easy on the nerves.”

  “I practically winged it, actually. You heard my position on the matter—it’s not like I needed a lot of data.”

  “Mmm,” Kristen said. “Not much raw data behind naturalistic nostalgia.”

  Ryan grinned at her as they turned into the walkway leading to one of the campus cafeterias. “The debate team rarely takes up much of my time, unless the subject is something that’s data intensive. For the past week I’ve been writing an essay for the class I’m heading to now. I was up pretty much all night last night putting the finishing touches on it.” Ryan patted his bag, where the twelve pages of the assignment were resting inside a spiral notebook.

  “What time did you finish?”

  “Too late.” Ryan said, “Only got a few hours of sleep.”

  Kristen nodded. “I can certainly relate to that. My whole life is spent working past midnight. Do you think you’ll get a good grade on it?”

  “Who knows,” Ryan said. Though he did know that in all likelihood, he would not be receiving a high mark. His Cultural Anthropology professor, the rather ornery Professor Hilton, had called him into his office after midterms. Professor Hilton expressed his disapproval toward what he, not so tactfully, referred to as Ryan’s “overly simplistic” perspectives. Realism and rationality, he had emphasized, were too often missing from Ryan’s main arguments. Ryan guessed the short stack of papers he had in his bag would not prove to be a trend breaker.

  “I tend to adhere loosely to the guidelines of an assignment.”

  “That must do wonders for your GPA,” Kristen said with a laugh. “In my little experience with humanities class requirements, I’ve found writing what the person grading your work wants to read makes both of your lives much easier.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ryan sighed. “But writing something I don’t really believe seems counterproductive to the purpose of a higher education. Besides, if the professor only gives high grades to people who write what he wants them to say, that makes him the stubborn one.”

  “You’re the one that just out debated a lobbyist, I’m certainly not going to challenge you.”

  Ryan glanced down at her and smiled discretely to himself. He noticed now she had a Vatruvian cell security badge clipped to her slender waist. Her awkwardly smiling photo on the ba
dge looked humorously young. It seemed impossible to Ryan that someone with the obvious intellect and attractiveness of this young woman could be without the slightest hint of pretension. He found himself intrigued, perhaps even mesmerized by her lack of conceit. Stealing an extended look at the teenaged Kristen Jordan smiling clumsily up at him from the laminate, Ryan felt an odd connection to her. This unassuming girl was undeniably one of the most brilliant people in the entire university—in the nation. She was an actual Vatruvian cell researcher.

  They strolled into one of Columbia’s older dining halls. Long rows of worn cafeteria tables and service counters were packed with students waiting in line or helping themselves to an uninspired salad bar. Ryan and Kristen made their way to the coffee dispensers and poured steaming French roast into styrofoam cups.

  “Second cup of the day for me,” Kristen said, mixing some skim milk into her cup and reading fall announcements on the nearby bulletin board. “I’m averaging over three cups these days.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Better than an Adderall addiction.”

  “Ha,” Kristen laughed aloud. “Too true.”

  “Ryan! Hey, Ryan!”

  Ryan turned around to see his friend Tim Richard. Tim was in several of Ryan’s freshman-year courses. They shared a European History class on Friday mornings, and swapped notes when either of them missed one of the early morning lectures. Tim played rugby.

  “This is the guy I was telling you about,” Tim said to his tablemates. They were all thick-shouldered and bruise-covered rugby players. “When are we going to get you to come out to some practices?”

  Ryan shook his head, putting a lid on his coffee cup. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen some of your injuries—no, thanks. How is your lip healing by the way?”

  “Please,” Tim said. “They sewed it back up fine. Fifteen stitches.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m all set.”

  Tim’s teammates vocalized disapproval, and Tim talked through a mouthful of tuna sandwich. “Are you sure that’s the reason, and not that our practices would interfere with your nerd club meetings?”

  “It’s the debate team, don’t disrespect. Broken lips heal quick—a broken ego doesn’t.”

  “Whatever, man.” Tim waved a dismissive hand. “I know you’ll come around eventually. See you in class tomorrow?”

  “For sure,” Ryan nodded. “I’ve got to run though.”

  Tim’s gaze hesitated for a moment on Kristen. He nodded to Ryan with a conspicuous thumbs-up before turning back to his friends. Ryan pretended not to see the gesture, and he perceived that Kristen did the same.

  “Sorry,” Ryan said. “Tact isn’t really his strong suit.”

  “No worries.” Kristen smiled. When they were out of hearing range and leaving the dining hall, she turned to him with a mocking expression as she adjusted the lid on her cup. “So rugby doesn’t interest you, huh? You don’t want to get out there and show everyone what you’re made of? Smack some skulls around and so on?”

  Ryan made a sheepish face. “Eh, the whole no helmet idea just seems ill conceived. The last thing anyone would want is for me to somehow harm my facial features.”

  “Yeah, a broken nose would be far worse than permanent brain damage.”

  Ryan had an athletic build, and it did not require too much imagination to envision him catching a football or driving a basketball down the lane. It had not been the first time someone encouraged him to join a club team, but Ryan had never been very interested in organized sports. Cerebral pursuits had always struck him as more engaging.

  “Did you play any sports before college?” Kristen asked. “I need to know if I’m getting familiar with a jock-type here.”

  “None worth noting,” Ryan shook his head. “Never been much of an athlete.”

  “Oh, well, me neither,” Kristen said, her tone casual. “I’m a train wreck when it comes to athletics. I did winter track my junior year in high school. Hated every minute of it. Asthma and the four-hundred meter aren’t a good mix. I ran junior varsity, and it was not a pretty sight.”

  Ryan envisioned her running laps at a high school track and saw the odd mismatch. “Well, you must be a world-class biologist.”

  “True, I suppose.” Kristen shrugged, a breeze lightly moving her hair. “I guess we all have different skill sets. Where others are good at rugby, you are good at arguing against lobbyists.”

  “Please don’t think of me as a good arguer. Being argumentative is an annoying trait. I just happen to get fired up when people in positions of power twist facts for special interests.”

  “Fair enough, argue was a poor word choice. But you have to admit you can rock a debate. I mean you practically sent that lobbyist running from the podium.”

  Ryan shrugged. “I suppose if I feel strongly enough about a subject I can defend my stance. But seriously, please don’t think of me as someone who is talented at being a dogmatic arguer. Argumentative people frustrate the hell out of me.”

  “Deal.”

  “Well, this is me,” Ryan said, coming to a halt at the wide marble stairway that led up to the doors of a stone lecture hall. Droves of students, some Ryan recognized from his class, were entering the dignified building.

  “Cool,” Kristen said with a smile. “I don’t think anything’s ever brought me in there. I haven’t been in most of the undergrad lecture halls, actually.”

  “Ah, you’re missing out,” Ryan said. He wanted to see her again and was now being careful not to allow an awkward moment to rear its deflating head. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

  Kristen raised a slender hand to her chest. “My schedule? I’m not sure. I’ll probably be at my lab for most of the morning. Beyond that, I don’t really have anything planned. I more or less make my own agenda.”

  Ryan took a shallow breath and held it, his chest filling with cement.

  “You know . . .” He tried to make his voice sound casual, but was fairly certain Kristen could see his heart beating through his shirt. “We should hang out tomorrow. That is, if you have nothing to do during the afternoon—or night, or whatever.”

  “Hang out?” Kristen looked up at him with a questioning, almost goading expression, taking some amusement in his fumbling. “Hang out as in give you an interview about the Vatruvian cell? Or like a date?”

  “Well, now that you mention a willingness to discuss the Vatruvian cell,” Ryan pretended to mull it over. “Nah. Let’s say a date.”

  Kristen laughed and nodded offhandedly. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that. But I really should be getting back to my lab; things are kind of crazy today. And you need to get to your class.”

  They took out their cell phones and exchanged numbers. To his contacts Ryan added the name Kristen Jordan.

  “Okay, well, I should be going. Good luck with your essay.” Kristen turned with a wave.

  “See you,” Ryan said, watching her disappear into the crowd. Satisfied, he turned and climbed the stairway. Ryan hurried into a small softly lit classroom on the first floor that smelled faintly of old books and citrus wood polish. A mahogany table, looking nearly as old as the university itself, dominated the room, and around it sat a dozen of his classmates and the imposing Professor Hilton. With his smart herringbone blazer and discerning glower, Professor Hilton was not easily contended with. He led a discussion-based class—a Socratic seminar of the most stressful variety.

  “Ryan Craig. You are late,” Professor Hilton said without lifting his gaze from his reading.

  “Sorry, I got caught up at the student debate.”

  Professor Hilton, whom Ryan guessed to be in his late fifties, ignored his apology. He cleared his throat and looked up. “You all were to have your essays prepared for today. The topic, globalization: should a native population’s cultural independence be protected through governmental law? Why or why not? We will go around the circle, and discuss each of your points. We’ll start with you, Jennifer. When you are ready, you may begin.”

  Jennifer Gr
aham was sitting to Ryan’s right. She sat up straight and calmly flattened her hands on the paper-clipped essay in front of her.

  “I based my essay on the idea that, if left isolated, indigenous societies will only fall further behind the modern times. As pleasing a fiction as it would be to not interfere with indigenous societies, it’s ultimately not a feasible solution. Eventually they will be displaced or disenfranchised. Assimilation, to some extent, with the expanding modern world is unavoidable. This is especially true if children within indigenous populations are to be given a modern education and healthcare. With that said, I think legislation should be in place to protect indigenous and impoverished individuals’ rights to their own cultural traditions and beliefs.”

  Although his face elicited none of his internal disdain, Ryan groaned soundlessly. Jennifer Graham’s essay was taken virtually word for word from Professor Hilton’s lectures over the previous few weeks. Ryan had a sudden feeling he was about to be put through an academic crucible for straying from the table’s decidedly well-established ideas.

  “Good, Jennifer.” Professor Hilton nodded. “Questions anyone?”

  He was met with silence. All the other students were clearly preoccupied with the brief presentations they were each going to imminently make. Ryan’s peers stared unflinchingly at their essays before them.

  “Very well. That sounds well conceived, Jennifer. I look forward to reading it.” Professor Hilton said and jotted something down on a pad of paper. “Mr. Craig, you’re next.”

  Ryan shifted in his chair, fairly certain his paper would not escape the scrutiny of the table with the ease Jennifer’s had. Sitting up, shoulders tense, he prepared for the worst. “I proposed that it’s the inherent responsibility, and even the duty of any globalizing power that stakes any claim on morality to allow for the cultural independence of any group of people, indigenous or otherwise. If not, the globalizing power is an imperialistic entity. An encroachment of any form on the belief system of an indigenous society or enclave of people is simply invasion with a more socially acceptable euphemism attached.”