Hybrids np-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  The reality that Cornelius Ruskin had to live with.

  “So you’re saying it’s not safe for any male Homo sapiens to travel to the Neanderthal world?” asked the male Asian interviewer.

  “That’s right,” said Mary. “The viral strain Jock Krieger released is—”

  “That’s the strain the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has dubbed ‘Ebola-Saldak,’ correct?” asked the interviewer.

  “That’s right,” said Mary. “We assume Krieger’s intention had been to make a strain that was only fatal to Neanderthals, but instead he ended up with something that selectively kills male Homo sapiens. We don’t know how widely dispersed that strain is now in the Neanderthal world, but we do know that it’s fatal to male humans of our species within hours of exposure.”

  “What about this Neanderthal decontamination technology? Dr. Boddit, what can you tell us about that?”

  “It uses tuned lasers to destroy foreign biomolecules in the body,” said Ponter. “Both Dr. Vaughan and myself were processed by it before crossing back to this version of Earth. It’s completely effective, but, as Dr. Vaughan said, any male Gliksin infected with Ebola-Saldak will die unless treated by this same process very quickly, and there are very few such decontamination stations on my world.”

  “And other than this laser technology, there’s no cure or vaccine?”

  “Not yet,” said Mary. “Of course, we will try to find one. But, remember, we’ve been working on cures for other Ebola strains for years, so far without success.”

  Cornelius shook his head. When he’d realized that Jock wasn’t just doing simulations but really planned to produce his virus, Cornelius had modified the code he’d written, had let Jock produce liters of the virus in sealed glassware, and then, when that was done, he’d reinstated the original code, so that if Jock checked it again, he’d never know it had been changed.

  It was supposed to compensate a bit, be a step toward evening out Cornelius’s karmic account—not that he could ever make up for what he’d done in Toronto. But the rapist had been the old him, the angry him. He really was a new man now—still wronged, but able to control his anger at being wronged. No, he no longer felt the way he had, back when he’d attacked Mary Vaughan, back when he’d savaged Qaiser Remtulla, back when testosterone had coursed through his veins. But they must still feel it, must still wake up in cold sweats, terrifying images of…

  Well, not of him, he imagined, but of a man in a black ski mask. At least, that was how Qaiser must see him, for she didn’t know the identity of her attacker.

  But Mary Vaughan knew who he was.

  It was a double-edged sword. Cornelius understood that. Mary couldn’t identify Cornelius without Ponter being exposed to charges for the…the cure …he’d administered to him.

  But, still, the images that haunted Mary surely had a face, white-skinned, blue-eyed, features twisted into anger and hatred.

  And now, Cornelius realized, it mattered little that no one would likely ever be able to identify his role in Reuben and Jock’s deaths. Mary had already told the world that Jock Krieger had made some mistake in designing his virus, that he’d been hoisted on his own petard, the victim of his own creation.

  And, truth be told, Cornelius didn’t feel too bad about the death of Krieger, who, after all, had been planning genocide for the Neanderthals.

  But an innocent man was dead, too, this doctor—this real doctor, this healer, this saver of lives, this Reuben Montego.

  Cornelius let go of his chair’s arms and lifted his hands to see if they were still shaking. They were. He grabbed hold of the armrests again.

  “An innocent man,” he said aloud, although there was no one but him around to hear it. He shook his head.

  As if there could be any such thing…

  But, then again, maybe there was.

  The obituaries and appreciations of Reuben Montego that had already appeared online spoke glowingly of him. And his girlfriend, Louise Benoît, whom Cornelius had met at the Synergy Group, was absolutely devastated by his death, saying over and over again what a kind and gentle man he’d been.

  Yet again, Cornelius had caused great sadness to a woman.

  He knew he’d have to do something soon about his castration. Other changes, after all, would shortly begin to occur: his metabolism would slow, fat would begin to pile up on his body. He’d already noticed that his beard came in more slowly, and he was feeling listless much of the time—listless, or depressed. The obvious solution was to start testosterone treatments. Testosterone was a steroid, he knew, produced mainly in the testicles’ Leydig cells. But he also knew it could be synthesized from more readily obtainable steroids, such as diosgenin; doubtless there was a black market in it. Cornelius had tried to ignore the drug dealing going on near his old apartment in Driftwood, but surely if he’d wanted to find a dealer for testosterone, he could locate one there, or somewhere here in Rochester.

  But no. No, he did not want to do that. He did not want to go back to being his old self, to feeling that way.

  There was no going back for him.

  And…

  And no going forward, either.

  He lifted his hands. They weren’t shaking anymore; they weren’t shaking at all.

  He wondered what people would say about him after he was gone.

  He’d followed all the recent debate about religious worldviews in the press. If people like Mary Vaughan were right, he’d know—even in death, he’d know. And maybe, just maybe, his having saved the Neanderthal world from the likes of himself would count for something.

  Of course, if the Neanderthals were right, death would be oblivion, a simple cessation of being.

  Cornelius hoped the Neanderthals were right.

  He didn’t want to leave any evidence of the mutilation he’d suffered. He couldn’t care less what happened to Ponter Boddit, but he didn’t want his own family to ever know what he’d done in Toronto.

  Cornelius Ruskin headed out to the garage, and began siphoning gasoline from his car’s tank.

  * * *

  “Well, Bandra, what do you think?” asked Mary.

  Bandra was wearing Gliksin clothes—taupe Nikes, stone-washed blue jeans, and a loose green shirt, all bought at the same Mark’s Work Wearhouse that had provided Ponter’s new clothes during his first visit to Mary’s world. She placed her hands on her wide hips and looked around in astonishment. “It…it is unlike any dwelling I have ever seen.”

  Mary looked around the large living room as well. “This is the kind of house most people live in—at least, here in North America. Well, actually, this is an exceptionally nice house, and most people live in big cities, not out in the country.” She paused. “Do you like it?”

  “It will take some getting used to,” said Bandra. “But, yes, I do like it very much. It’s so big!”

  “Two stories,” said Mary. “Thirty-five hundred square feet, plus basement.” She gave Bandra’s Companion a second to do the conversion, then smiled. “And there are three bathrooms.”

  Bandra’s wheat-colored eyes went wide. “The lap of luxury!”

  Mary smiled, recalling the slogan of the hair dye she used. “We’re worth it.”

  “And you say the surrounding land is ours, as well?”

  “Yup. All 2.3 acres.”

  “But…but can we afford it? I know here everything has a cost.”

  “We certainly couldn’t afford this much land anywhere near Toronto. But here, outside Lively? Sure. After all, Laurentian University will be paying us both well, as academic salaries go.”

  Bandra sat down on the living-room couch and gestured toward the dark wood curio cabinets, filled with little carvings. “The furnishings and decorations are beautiful,” she said.

  “It’s an unusual mix,” said Mary. “Canadian and Caribbean. Of course, Reuben’s family will want some of the things, and I’m sure Louise will want a few, as well, but we’ll get to keep most of them. I bought the ho
use furnished.”

  Bandra looked down. “I wish I had met your friend Reuben.”

  “You’d have liked him,” said Mary, sitting next to Bandra on the couch. “He was a terrific person.”

  “Won’t it make you sad, though?” asked Bandra. “Living here?”

  Mary shook her head. “Not really. See, this is where Ponter, Louise, Reuben, and I were all quarantined together during Ponter’s first visit to my world. It’s where I got to know Ponter, where I started to fall in love with him.” She pointed across the room, at some heavy built-in bookcases, filled with mystery novels. “I can picture him, right there, using the edge of that far bookcase as a scratching post, shimmying left and right. And we had so many wonderful conversations on this very couch. I know I’ll only be with him four days a month from now on, and mostly in his world, not mine, but it’s like, in a way, that this is his home, too.”

  Bandra smiled. “I understand.”

  Mary patted her knee. “And that’s why I love you. Because you do understand.”

  “But,” said Bandra, grinning now, “it won’t be just the two of us much longer. It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in a house with a baby in it.”

  “I hope you’ll help me,” said Mary.

  “Of course. I know what ninth-daytenth feedings are like!”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that…although I certainly would be grateful! No, what I mean is I hope you’ll help me in bringing up Ponter and my daughter. I want her to know and appreciate both cultures, Gliksin and Barast.”

  “True synergy,” said Bandra, smiling widely. “Two really becoming One.”

  Mary smiled back at her. “Exactamundo.”

  The call came two days later, about six in the evening. Mary and Bandra had finished their first full day at Laurentian, and were relaxing in their house, the house that had been Reuben’s. Mary was stretched out on the couch, finally finishing the Scott Turow novel she’d started ages ago, back before the first opening of the interuniversal portal. Bandra was reclining in the La-Z-Boy that had come with the place, the very one Mary had slept in during the quarantine. She was reading a book of her own on a Neanderthal datapad.

  When the two-piece phone on the little table next to the couch rang, Mary folded down the paperback’s page, sat up, and lifted the handset. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mary,” said a female voice with a Pakistani accent. “It’s Qaiser Remtulla from York calling.”

  “My goodness, hello! How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but—but I’m calling with sad news. You remember Cornelius Ruskin?”

  Mary felt her stomach clench. “Of course.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but I’m afraid he’s passed away.”

  Mary’s eyebrows went up. “Really? But he was so young…”

  “Thirty-five, I’m told,” said Qaiser.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a fire, and…” She paused, and Mary could hear her swallowing hard. “And there wasn’t much left, apparently.”

  Mary struggled to find a response. At last an “Oh” escaped her lips.

  “Did you—do you want to come to the memorial service? It’s going to be on Friday, here in Toronto.”

  Mary didn’t have to think about that. “No. No, I really didn’t know him,” she said. I really didn’t know him at all.

  “Well, okay, I understand,” said Qaiser. “I just thought we should inform you.”

  Mary wanted to tell Qaiser that she should sleep peacefully, now that the man who had raped her—who had raped both of them—was dead, but…

  But Mary wasn’t supposed to be aware of Qaiser’s rape. Her mind was reeling; she’d find some way to eventually let Qaiser know. “I do appreciate the call. Sorry I can’t make it.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Mary placed the handset in its cradle. Bandra had returned the La-Z-Boy to its upright position. “Who was that?”

  Mary walked over to Bandra and extended her arms, helping Bandra to her feet. She then pulled Bandra close to her.

  “Are you all right?” asked Bandra.

  Mary hugged her tight. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Bandra said, “You’re crying.” She couldn’t see Mary’s face, which was nestled into her shoulder; perhaps she smelled the salt in the tears.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mary softly. “Just hold me.”

  And Bandra did precisely that.

  Chapter Forty-four

  “My fellow human beings, my fellow Homo sapiens, we will continue our great journey, continue our wondrous quest, continue ever outward. That is our history, and it is our future. And we will not stop, not falter, not give up until we have reached the farthest stars.”

  Ponter and Adikor had been spending a lot of time at the United Nations, advising a committee that was trying to decide whether to continue construction of the new, permanent portal between UN headquarters and the corresponding site on Donakat Island. After all, if men couldn’t use it, some were arguing, then all work should be abandoned. Louise Benoît had been appointed to the same committee.

  Laurentian University, of course, took a Christmas break—meaning that Mary and Bandra were free for the holidays. And so they’d decided to fly down to New York to spend New Year’s Eve with Louise, Ponter, and Adikor in Times Square.

  “It’s incredible!” said Bandra, shouting to be heard above the crowd. “How many people are here?”

  “They usually get half a million,” said Mary.

  Bandra looked around. “Half a million! I don’t think there have ever been half a million Barasts together in one place.”

  “So,” said Ponter, “why do you celebrate the new year on this date? It’s not a solstice or an equinox.”

  “Um,” said Louise, “I honestly don’t know. Mary?”

  Mary shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.” She sought Louise’s eyes, tried to imitate her accent above the din. “But any day’s a good day to par-tay!” But a smile was too much to hope for; it was still much too soon.

  “So what’s going to happen tonight?” asked Adikor.

  Everything was bathed in a neon glow. “See that building over there?” said Mary, pointing.

  Adikor and Ponter nodded.

  “That used to be the headquarters of the New York Times newspaper—that’s why this is called Times Square. Anyway, see the flagpole on top? It’s seventy-seven feet tall. A giant ball, weighing a thousand pounds, will be lowered down that pole starting precisely at 11:59P.M. , and it will take exactly sixty seconds to reach the bottom. When it does, that’s the beginning of the new year, and a big fireworks display will begin.” Mary held up a bag; they’d each received one, compliments of the Times Square Business Improvement District. “Now, when the ball hits the bottom—well, you’re supposed to kiss your loved ones first, and shout ‘Happy New Year.’ But you’re also supposed to toss the contents of your bag into the air. It’s full of little bits of paper called confetti.”

  Adikor shook his head. “It’s a complex ritual.”

  “It sounds delightful!” said Bandra. “I think we—astonishment! Astonishment!”

  “What?” said Mary.

  Bandra pointed. “It’s us!”

  Mary turned. One of the giant video screens was showing Bandra and Mary. As Mary watched—it was quite a thrill!—the image panned left, catching Ponter and Adikor. After a moment, though, the picture switched to New York’s mayor, waving at the crowd. Mary turned back to the others.

  “Our presence has not gone unnoticed,” she said, smiling.

  Ponter laughed. “Oh, we are used to that!”

  “You come here every year?” asked Adikor.

  A light snow was falling, and Mary’s breath was visible as she spoke. “Me? I’ve never been here before—but I watch it on TV each year, along with about 300 million other people worldwide. It’s quite the tradition.”

  “What time is it now?” asked Ponter.

  Mary lo
oked at her watch; there was plenty of neon light to see the display by. “Just past 11:30,” she said.

  “Oooh!” said Bandra, pointing again. “Now it’s Lou’s turn!”

  The giant screen had a tight close-up on Louise’s beautiful face, and she smiled enchantingly at seeing herself on the big screen. There were howls of appreciation from tens of thousands of males. Well, Pamela Anderson Lee had gotten her start on a Jumbotron, too…

  The monitor changed to show Dick Clark, in a black silk jacket, standing on a wide stage, surrounded by hundreds of pink and clear balloons. “Hello, world!” he shouted, and then, amending himself with a giant, perfect grin: “Hello, worlds! ”

  The crowd cheered. Mary clapped her mittened hands together.

  “Welcome back to Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve! ”

  More cheering. All around them, people were waving little American flags that had been given out along with the confetti bags.

  “It’s been an amazing year,” said Clark. “A year that saw us meet up with our long-lost cousins, the Neanderthals.” The screen changed to show a close-up of Ponter, who took a second to spot the camera, then waved gamely, Hak’s nice new faceplate sparkling in the neon rainbow.

  A chant went up from the crowd. “Pon- ter! ” “Pon- ter! ” “Pon- ter! ”

  Mary felt as though her heart were going to burst with pride. Dick Clark kept things moving along, though. “Tonight, in addition to the biggest bands from this world, Krik Donalt is going to perform his number-one hit ‘Two Becoming One’ live in our Hollywood studio. But, right now, we’ll—sir, sir, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

  Mary looked at the giant screen, baffled. Clark was alone on the stage.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re on the air here,” said Clark to empty space. He turned and shouted, “Matt, can we get this clown out of here?”

  There was a murmur through the crowd. Whatever bit Clark was trying clearly wasn’t working. Indeed, Bandra leaned in to Mary and said, “He’s bombing…”

  Suddenly, a man whose back had been to them turned—a tricky feat, given that the crowd was packed like cord-wood—and looking right at Ponter, he said, “My God, it’s you! It’s you!”