Hybrids np-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “You know,” Bandra said, “there are those of my kind who don’t approve of the contact between our worlds. Councilor Bedros—remember him from the Voyeur?—is one such. But even if there are—another phrase of yours I like—even if there are a few bad apples, they do not spoil the bunch. He is wrong, Mare. He is wrong about your people. You are proof of that.”

  Mary smiled again. “Thank you.”

  Bandra hesitated for a long moment, her eyes shifting from Mary’s left to her right and back again. And then she leaned in and made a long, slow lick up Mary’s left cheek.

  Mary felt her entire spine tighten. “Bandra…”

  Bandra dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry…” she said softly. “I know it’s not your way…”

  Mary placed her hand under Bandra’s long jaw, and slowly lifted her face until she was facing Mary.

  “No,” Mary said. “It’s not.” She looked into Bandra’s wheat-colored eyes. Her heart was racing.

  Carpe diem.

  Mary leaned in closer, and, as she brought her lips into contact with Bandra’s, she said, “This is.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “And although our Neanderthal cousins will be welcome to join us in this grand Mars adventure, should they so choose, it is something it seems few of them will desire…”

  Cornelius Ruskin knocked on the office door. “Come in,” called the familiar female voice with its slight Pakistani accent.

  Cornelius took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Hi, Qaiser,” he said, waking into the office.

  Professor Qaiser Remtulla’s metal desk was at right angles to the doorway, the long edge against one wall, the left short edge underneath her window. She was wearing a dark green jacket and black pants. “Cornelius!” she declared. “We were getting quite worried about you.”

  Cornelius couldn’t manage a smile, but he did say, “That’s very kind.”

  But Qaiser’s round face creased into a small frown. “I wish you’d called to let me know you’d be in today, though. Dave Olsen has already come in to teach your afternoon class.”

  Cornelius shook his head a bit. “That’s fine. In fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  Qaiser did what just about every academic has to do when a visitor comes: she got up from her own swivel chair and took the pile of books and papers off the one other chair in the room. In her case, it was a metal-framed stacking chair with orange vinyl cushions. “Have a seat,” she said.

  Cornelius did just that, crossing his legs at the ankles and—

  He shook his head again, wondering if he’d ever get used to the sensation. He’d spent his whole life subtly aware of the pressure on his testicles whenever he sat like this, but there was no such feeling anymore.

  “What can I do for you?” prodded Qaiser.

  Cornelius looked at her face: brown eyes, brown skin, brown hair, a trio of chocolate shades. She looked to be about forty-five, ten years older than he was. He’d seen her crying in anguish, seen her begging him not to hurt her. He didn’t regret it; she had deserved it, but…

  But.

  “Qaiser,” he said, “I’d like to take a leave of absence.”

  “There are no paid leaves for sessional instructors,” she replied.

  Cornelius nodded. “I know that. I—” He’d rehearsed all this, but now hesitated, wondering if it was really the right approach. “You know I’ve been sick. My doctor says I should take a…a rest leave. You know, some time off.”

  Qaiser’s features shifted to concern. “Is it something serious? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Cornelius shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine, I’m sure. But I—I just don’t feel up to being in the classroom anymore.”

  “Well, the Christmas break is coming up in a few weeks. If you could just stick it out until then…”

  “I’m sorry, Qaiser. I really don’t think I should.”

  Qaiser frowned. “You know we’re shorthanded as is, what with Mary Vaughan having left.”

  Cornelius nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I have to ask,” said Qaiser. “This is a genetics department, after all. There are lots of things here that potentially could have made you sick, and…well, I have to worry about the health of the students and the faculty. Is your problem related to any chemicals or specimens you encountered here?”

  Cornelius shook his head again. “No. No, it’s nothing like that.” He took a deep breath. “But I can’t stay here any longer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” A few weeks ago, he’d have been unable to discuss this topic without getting apoplectic, but now…

  He shrugged a bit.

  “Because you’ve won.”

  Qaiser’s eyebrows pulled together. “Pardon?”

  “You’ve won. The system here—it’s won. It’s beaten me.”

  “What system?”

  “Oh, come on! The hiring system, the promotion system, the tenure system. There’s no place for a white man.”

  Qaiser apparently couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s been a difficult issue for the university,” said Qaiser. “For all universities. But you know, despite the presence of me and a few others, the genetics department is still way below the university’s guidelines in terms of number of tenure-stream positions held by women.”

  “You’re supposed to have forty percent,” said Cornelius.

  “Right, and we’re nowhere near that—not yet.” Qaiser’s voice took on a defensive note. “But, look, even so, it should be half, and—”

  “Half,” repeated Cornelius; he said it so calmly it surprised him, and apparently surprised Qaiser, too, since she immediately stopped talking. “Even when only twenty percent of the applicants are female?”

  “Well, all right, then—but, anyway, the target isn’t half. It’s just forty percent.”

  “How many tenured or tenure-track positions are there in this department?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And how many are held by females?”

  “Currently? Counting Mary?”

  “Of course counting Mary.”

  “Three.”

  Cornelius nodded. He’d gotten back at two of them; the third was in a wheelchair, and Cornelius hadn’t been able to bring himself to…

  “So the next three tenure-track openings have to go to women, don’t they?” he said.

  “Well, yes. Assuming they’re qualified.”

  Cornelius surprised himself; those last three words would have set him off before. But now…

  “And if Mary’s leave turns out to be permanent,” he said, his tone still even, “as it probably will, you’ll have to replace her with a woman, too, right?”

  Qaiser nodded, but she still wasn’t meeting his eyes.

  “So the next four tenure-track appointments have to go to women.” He stopped himself—rather more easily than he’d expected to be able to do so—before adding, “Preferably crippled black ones.”

  Qaiser nodded again.

  “How often does a tenure-track position open up?” he asked, as if he himself didn’t already know the answer.

  “It depends on when people retire, or move on to other things.”

  Cornelius waited, saying nothing.

  “Every couple of years or so,” Qaiser finally replied.

  “More like three years, on average,” said Cornelius. “Trust me; I’ve done the math. Meaning it’ll be twelve years before you’re looking for a male, and even then it’ll be a disabled or minority male, isn’t that right?”

  “Well…”

  “Isn’t that right?”

  But there was no need for Qaiser to reply; Cornelius had read the relevant part of the collective agreement between the Faculty Association and the Board of Governors so often he could recite it from memory, despite the awkward bureaucratic phrasing:

  (i) In units where fewer than 40% of the tenure stream faculty/librarian positions are filled by women, when can
didates’ qualifications are substantially equal the candidate who is a member of a visible/racial minority, an aboriginal person or a person with a disability and female shall be recommended for appointment.

  (ii) If there is no candidate recommended from (i) above then when candidates’ qualifications are substantially equal a candidate who is female or who is a male and a member of a visible/racial minority, an aboriginal person, or a person with a disability shall be recommended for appointment.

  If there is no candidate recommended from (i) or (ii) above then the candidate who is male shall be recommended for appointment.

  “Cornelius, I’m sorry,” said Qaiser, at last.

  “Everybody is in line in front of an able-bodied white male.”

  “It’s only because…”

  Qaiser trailed off, and Cornelius fixed her with a steady gaze. “Yes?” he said.

  She actually squirmed a bit. “It’s only because able-bodied white males cut to the front of the line so often in the past.”

  Cornelius remembered the last time someone had said that to him—a bleeding-heart liberal white guy at a party, last spring. He’d jumped down the guy’s throat, and practically tore out his lungs, saying he shouldn’t be punished for the actions of his ancestors, and just…

  He realized it now.

  Just basically making an ass of himself. He’d left the party in a huff.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Cornelius. “In any event, what’s that old prayer? ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ ” He paused. “In this case, I do know the difference.”

  “I’m sorry, Cornelius,” said Qaiser.

  “And so, I should leave.” Take my balls and go home, he thought—but, of course, he couldn’t do that anymore.

  “Most universities have similar affirmative-action programs, you know. Where would you go?”

  “Private industry, maybe. I love to teach, but…”

  Qaiser nodded. “Biotech is superhot, right now. Lots of job openings, and…”

  “And since biotech is mostly an industry of start-ups, no historical imbalances to correct,” said Cornelius, his tone even.

  “Say,” said Qaiser, “you know what you should do? Go to the Synergy Group!”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the U.S.-government think tank devoted to Neanderthal studies. They’re the group that hired Mary Vaughan away.”

  Cornelius was about to dismiss the notion—working with Mary now would be as difficult as working with Qaiser—but Qaiser continued: “I heard they offered Mary a hundred and fifty grand U.S.”

  Cornelius felt his jaw dropping. That was—Christ, that was close to a quarter of a million dollars a year Canadian. It was indeed the kind of money a guy like him, with a Ph.D. from Oxford, should be pulling down!

  Still…“I don’t want to muscle in on Mary’s turf,” he said.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t be doing that,” said Qaiser. “In fact, I hear she’s left Synergy. Daria Klein had an e-mail from her a while ago. She’s apparently gone native—moved permanently over to the Neanderthal world.”

  “Permanently?”

  Qaiser nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

  Cornelius frowned. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to apply there, then…”

  “Absolutely!” said Qaiser, apparently eager to do something for Cornelius. “Look, let me write you a letter of reference. I bet they’ll need another DNA expert there to replace Mary. Your graduate work was at Oxford’s Ancient Biomolecules Centre, right? You’d be a perfect fit.”

  Cornelius considered. He’d done what he’d done in the first place because of frustration over his stalled career. It would be a nice bit of closure to have that ultimately lead to him getting the kind of job he deserved. “Thank you, Qaiser,” he said, smiling at her. “Thank you very much.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “But whether the Neanderthals come with us or not to the red planet, we should adopt their view of that world’s color. Mars is not a symbol of war; it is the color of health, of life—and if it is, perhaps, barren of life now, we should not let it remain so any longer…”

  It was time for Mary to get the codon writer to Jock, so that he could take it back to…

  Well, to where?

  Mary had laughed when she’d seen Councilor Bedros on the Voyeur referring to the Barast world as “Jantar.” There was no single name for the version of Earth that Mary called home. “Earth” was just the English term; it was called different things in other languages. Terra was the word in Latin and many of its descendants. The French—and the French-Canadians—called it Terre. In Esperanto, it was Tero. The Greek term—Gaea —was popular among environmentalists. Russians called it Zemlja; the Swedes Jorden. In Hebrew it was Eretz; in Arabic, Ard; in Farsi, Zamin; in Mandarin, Diqiu; and in Japanese, Chikyuu. The most beautiful of the lot, thought Mary, was the Tahitian, Vuravura. Ponter simply called it “Mare’s world,” but Mary doubted that was going to catch on in general use.

  In any event, Mary now had to get the codon writer to Jock so that he could take it safely back to…to Gliksinia.

  Gliksinia? No, too harsh. How about Sapientia? Or—

  The travel cube Mary had called for arrived, and she clambered into one of the two rear seats. “The Debral nickel mine,” said Mary.

  The driver gave her a cool look. “Going home?”

  “Not me,” said Mary. “But somebody else is.”

  Mary’s heart leaped when she caught sight of Ponter, part of the group returning from Donakat Island. But she had promised herself she would behave like a proper native of this world, and not run into his arms. After all, Two were not One!

  Still, when no one else was looking, she blew him a kiss, and he smiled broadly back at her.

  But it wasn’t him she’d really come to see. It was Jock Krieger. Mary sidled up to him, carrying her long wrapped package under her arm. “Beware of Gliksins bearing gifts!” she said.

  “Mary!” exclaimed Jock.

  Mary motioned for Jock to move out of earshot of the others. A silver-clad Exhibitionist tried to follow them, but Mary turned around and glared at him until he scuttled away.

  “So,” said Mary, “what do you think of this world?”

  “It’s astonishing,” said Jock. “I knew in an intellectual sort of way that we’d screwed up our environment, but until I saw all this…” He gestured at the countryside. “It’s like finding Eden.”

  Mary laughed. “Isn’t it, though? Too bad it’s already occupied, eh?”

  “It is indeed,” said Jock. “Are you going to come back home with us, or do you want to spend some more time in the garden?”

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay a few more days.” She tried not to smile. “I’ve been making…great progress.” She presented the package. “But I do have something I want you to take back.”

  “What is it?”

  Mary looked left and right, then checked over her shoulder. She then looked down, just to make sure that Jock hadn’t been forced to strap on a Companion. “It’s a codon writer—a Barast DNA synthesizer.”

  “Why do you need me to take it back? Why don’t you just bring it yourself when you come?”

  Mary lowered her voice. “This is banned technology. I’m not really supposed to have it—no one is. But it’s the most amazing thing. I’ve written up some notes for you about it; they’re included in the package.”

  Jock lifted his eyebrows up toward his pompadour, clearly impressed. “Banned technology? I knew I was doing the right thing when I hired you…”

  Suddenly Mary was awake. It took her a moment to orient herself in the darkness, to figure out where she was.

  A large, warm form was sleeping quietly next to her. Ponter?

  No, no. Not yet, not tonight. It was Bandra; Mary had been sharing Bandra’s bed these last few nights.

  Ma
ry glanced at the ceiling. Neanderthal digits were gently glowing there, specifying the time. Mary was good at deciphering them when wide awake, but her vision was blurry right now, and it took her a few seconds—a few beats —to remember that she had to read them from right to left, and that a circle was the symbol for five, not zero. It was the middle of daytenth nine; a little after 3:00A.M.

  There was no point leaping out of bed, even though that’s what she felt like doing. And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was sleeping next to another woman; indeed, she was surprised how easy it had been to get used to that. But the thought that had forced her awake was still in her head, burning brightly.

  Occasionally she’d awoken in the middle of the night with brilliant thoughts before, only to fall back asleep and have them completely gone by morning. Indeed, many years ago she’d briefly fancied herself a poet—she and Colm had met at one of his poetry readings—and she’d kept a pad at her bedside, along with a small book-light, so that she could make notes without disturbing him. But she’d given that up soon enough, since the notes had turned out, when reviewed in the morning, to be mostly gibberish.

  But this thought, this notion, this wonderful, wonderful idea, would still be there in the morning, of that Mary was certain. It was too important to let slip away.

  She hugged herself, nestled back into the cushions, and soon was asleep, very much at peace.

  The next morning Christine gently woke Mary at the agreed upon time—two-thirds of the way through the tenth daytenth. Bandra’s Companion had been asked to wake her simultaneously, and did indeed seem to be doing so.

  Mary smiled at Bandra. “Hey,” she said, reaching out to touch the Barast woman’s arm.

  “Healthy day,” said Bandra. She blinked a few times, still waking up. “Let me get to work on breakfast.”

  “Not yet,” said Mary. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  They were facing each other on the bed, only a short distance between them. “What?”

  “When Two were last One,” said Mary, “Ponter and I had a talk about…about our future.”