by Ted Kosmatka
Finally, Paul opened the folder and began reading the report. He thought of Alan on the bridge. His black eyes, his broken nose. The results in the report were clear. When Paul finished reading, he closed the folder.
“What is that?”
“It’s a phylogenetic analysis of the Flores sequence.”
“What does it say?”
“Other,” he said softly.
“What?”
“They’re divergent,” Paul said. “The bones from the Flores dig are from a population divergent from humans.”
“How divergent?”
“More divergent than the age of the earth.” They were an other who used stone tools. Who hunted as humans hunted and lived as humans lived. Beings who weren’t human. And whose existence no religion on earth had ever mentioned.
There was too much to take in. Most of all, the question. And finally she voiced it.
“Why show us all this?” she asked. “The lab, the report, the babies.”
Paul didn’t answer at first. “To brag,” he said. “For men like him, without somebody to show it to, it makes it matter less.”
“But he has colleagues. He has the politicians to show. So why us?”
Paul shook his head. “I suspect not many people have seen what we’ve seen—and I bet most of them work here. He can only show people he trusts, or people he can control. Which is the same thing. But politicians…” Paul let the word linger. “They wouldn’t want to see this. They’d make a point of it. Even if they saw it, they wouldn’t see it. Plausible deniability. They’d have to not see it.”
“Maybe,” Lilli said, but she looked doubtful. “But there’s got to be more than just ego behind it.”
“Never underestimate ego.”
Lilli’s face went slack. She lay down on the bed, resting her head on the pillow. Paul knew that she’d come to the same conclusion he had regarding another matter. “Regardless of whatever else it might mean,” she said, “it most surely and definitely means one thing in particular.”
Paul nodded but didn’t speak.
“It means he’s never going to let us leave.”
41
Paul walked the river ice. An endless ribbon of white. He saw tree branches scrawled black against a chalky winter sky. The girl was up ahead somewhere, he knew, though he couldn’t see her. Around the bend. Just out of sight. He followed her footsteps in the snow. Though he shouldn’t, he ran. The ice cracked like gunshots, but that meant it was safe. Then the sound changed, dying out, becoming another kind of sound. A sound like old leather. Paul rounded the bend in the river, the girl’s name on his lips … but when he looked, there was no girl. Only a hole in the ice where she’d fallen through.
Paul opened his eye and turned his head toward the doorway. He nudged Lilli awake, and she startled. He realized she’d been lost in her own dream.
Paul swung his feet to the floor and walked to the door. “Yes?” He spoke through the thick wood.
There came the sound of a key in the lock, and a moment later the door swung open.
It was the guard. The same big one who’d first come for them. He stuck his face into the room. “Breakfast is in ten minutes,” he said. He shut the door behind him. The key jangled in the lock.
“Breakfast?” Lilli said, dumbfounded.
They showered and dressed quickly.
Ten minutes later, the guard was back. He led them along the corridor, then down a flight of stairs that opened to an outdoor veranda. The old man was already there, sitting at a vast table spread with a white tablecloth and bearing several bowls of fruit.
“Coffee?” he asked.
Paul nodded as he sat. “I’ll take some.”
A server materialized out of nowhere and poured coffee for the three of them. Then the server just as quickly disappeared again, sliding behind the hedge that divided the veranda from the rest of the exterior space.
“Lillivati Gajjar,” the old man said. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Bilingual. You attended college with Paul. Trained in primatology. Until recently, employed as a museum researcher.”
“Still employed,” she said.
“You’ve lived in the U.S., Sri Lanka, and India. Divorced. You tried teaching, but your contract wasn’t renewed.”
“It wasn’t renewed because I wasn’t interested.”
“Really? You weren’t interested, or they weren’t interested?”
She remained silent.
“And now he brings you in on this,” the old man continued. “Some girls have quite the luck. Tell me, what do you think of all this?”
“I suppose you’ll tell me that next.”
The old man laughed. “You’re quite the surprise, I must admit. Sometimes I’m not sure what to think myself, but there is one thing I’m sure of. We do great things here. Things that can’t be done out there, where prying eyes can see and judge.”
“Because the world would shut you down,” Paul said, speaking for the first time.
“Sometimes things go wrong,” Martial said. “True. And there are those who would use that as an excuse to stop our work.”
“What do you intend with us?” Lilli asked.
“Intend with you?” The old man leaned forward, a serious expression on his face. “I intended to kill you, let me be blunt about it. But we don’t get many visitors here, as you may imagine.”
The old man leaned back in his chair. He seemed to consider his breakfast companions. “But Paul here, I have some qualms about. You see, I knew his father. So I am somewhat conflicted. I’m not a bad man—not really. I’m just efficient, and sometimes it looks like the same thing.”
“Sometimes it is the same thing,” Lilli said.
“I’ve a story for you. A hundred years ago in Australia, there was a man of Dutch descent, demented and deranged by all accounts, who took for a wife a young aboriginal woman. They lived out in the bush somewhere, a hermetic existence, rarely in contact with civilization. And during the course of their marriage they had several half-caste daughters—if I can make use of the term commonly used there at the time—who they raised in the bush. And the daughters grew, and it came to pass that the mother died. The father took his own daughter as his wife, in violation of nature, and she, in turn, bore him several children, who were themselves only a quarter aboriginal. Such unnatural pairings have happened from time to time, no doubt, throughout history. But what makes this case so remarkable is that this next generation, too, produced a child who grew to marry that same man, who was in his sixties by this time, and she, too, produced several children in what can only be described as the most intensive form of human line breeding ever documented by science. When this small clan was discovered in the bush, they numbered more than a dozen, some of them lame, some of them touched, and it was the strange brightening of each successive generation that first got the investigator’s attention. He found it odd that the youngest child—a poor mentally handicapped boy—looked nearly white, while each older generation seemed darker and darker.”
“Do you have a point?”
“The point, my dear, is that any privileging of humanity above other forms of life would be a fallacy. It’s a waste of time to assign external causes to internal drives. We fight because it is in us to do so. That’s also, incidentally, why we fuck. One doesn’t need an excuse to do so, but instead must be given a reason not to do so.”
“You make us sound like animals.”
“We are precisely animals. No different from cows or pigs or wolves. I have been looking for what makes us different, and I cannot find it. You are the monkey woman, no?” There was sudden rage in the old man’s face now. An unexplained anger.
“What do—”
“Primatology, this was not your specialty? You graduated with a degree in primatology, a three-point-seven grade point average, attended a graduate program at Washington University. This is you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What makes us different from apes?”
“There are numerous things.”
“But what, specifically, makes us different?”
“Genetically there are a lot—”
“Ninety-seven percent identical, yes,” the old man snapped. “We’ve all heard that figure, but where are those differences?”
“They’re spread over the entire—”
The old man slammed his hand down on the table. The silverware jumped.
“Humans have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. Chimps, twenty-four. This is the obvious difference, easily visible on a simple karyotype. A basic difference in chromosome structure.”
The old man reached for his silverware. He unrolled the napkin and spilled the silverware across the table. He grabbed a second and third napkin and did the same. Then a fourth. He laid the silverware out in a pattern: two forks, two tablespoons, two teaspoons, two knives, side by side. He laid out a second group of silverware in an identical pattern. “You see, they are the same,” he said. “These are our chromosomes. Forks are chromosome one. Tablespoons are chromosome two. Teaspoons, chromosome three. Knives, chromosome four, and so on. Us and them.” He gestured to the two matching sets of silverware.
He continued: “Our chromosome number one looks like their chromosome number one. Our chromosome three looks like their chromosome three. Do you see?” He slid the fork from one group and he set it next to the first fork from the other, putting them side by side. “They line up just right. If you butt them up against each other in a petri dish, you’ll get linkage, chiasma, meiosis, all the old black magic.”
The old man glared at them from across the stretch of silverware.
“But then what of the chimp’s extra chromosome, you ask?” Martial took a sip of his water. “Chimps have an extra pair, after all.”
The old man looked at Lilli. She stared back at him without flinching.
“Did it come from thin air?” the old man asked. “What is this strange piece of DNA that makes a chimp a chimp?”
The old man was giving a class, Paul realized. They were his students.
The old man took one little teaspoon from the second grouping and bent it at the thin point of its neck. He bent it again, back and forth at the same spot until the spoon snapped in two. He laid both halves back on the table. “This is the chimp,” he said. “Not an extra chromosome, not really. Simply a broken one. Consider it for a moment. Maybe in this way, God created the animals. Taking a piece of this and a piece of that, moving the DNA around like a composer might shift the register of a sonata.”
The old man smiled and leaned forward again, staring at them now.
“And now I confess my greatest sin. It occurred to me to wonder how He might have done it.” His smile widened, showing worn and ancient teeth. “Poof!” he said. “Like magic? Or with a methodology behind it? Was there a lab, I wonder? Different tries? Failed experiments?”
“You’re crazy,” Lilli said.
The old man’s smile flitted away, and he slammed his hand down on the table again. The silverware jumped, scrambling the carefully assembled order, shifting the pattern into a new configuration. Mutation before their eyes.
“There are those who would look away from uncomfortable truths. I have never been one of those men. What about you, Paul? How uncomfortable are you willing to be?”
The old man took a bite of pineapple and stood. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
“What were those things that attacked us?” Paul asked.
“Perhaps you’d like to see.” The old man turned and walked outside.
Paul and Lilli looked at each other for a moment, then followed Martial out of the veranda and along a trail leading to another part of the facility. The facility was like a web with many parts. Martial was the spider.
The old man hobbled his way up the trail. He moved slowly, his breath coming in a sickly whistle. Though his words were still sharp, his body was failing him. He would not be long for this world. A few years more, maybe. Following the old man up the trail, Paul wondered what would happen if they tried to escape. How far would they get? He had no doubt they were being monitored. He saw men just at the edge of his vision. Standing alert. Watching as they passed. As if the old man’s casual-seeming walk had been scripted at a security meeting that morning, gone over in intricate detail. Paul wondered how much of today had been planned in advance.
The old man came to a huge white building. He opened the door and they entered a large room, much like the ape house from the previous night. Huge, domed ceiling. White walls. Cages nearly to the ceiling. Light streamed through skylights overhead. The place had the smell of newness to it, like it had never been used. It had the look of something that was about to be, rather than something that was.
“This is where we will house them,” the old man said.
“Them?”
“The specimens, when they are born.”
They walked through the booming expanse, Martial’s leather dress shoes clicking on the hard cement floor.
They came to the other end of the room and exited to the outside. An identical building stood across from them, connected by a short cement sidewalk. From inside the building came a strange screeching sound. Whatever would someday fill the empty cages now lived in there.
The old man stopped and considered the building.
“Are we going in?” Paul said.
The old man turned, the fibrous tendons in his neck seeming to creak. “After you,” he said.
Paul opened the door and stepped inside.
They passed into another nightmare room. A lower ring of hell.
Sunlight streamed through the skylights, but the place was a screeching madhouse. Alive with hoots and calls, maddening shrieks. Paul brought his fingers up to cover his ears as the screaming grew louder—a chorus of dozens, a hundred.
Cages lined the walls. On one side chimps, on the other gorillas.
“We crossed them,” the old man said. “The success rate was lower than I’d expected, but viable offspring were produced. Several dozen survived to adulthood, as you can see.” He gestured.
Paul saw then that, farther into the room, most of the cages held not chimps or gorillas but something intermediate.
“As with all hybrids, it depended on the nature of the cross. Chimp-gorilla produced a different phenotypic expression than gorilla-chimp.”
They continued walking. The faces in the cage leered out at them. Lilli stayed close to Paul.
Halfway across the room was a small control room. Thick glass and bars on the windows, and inside, against the wall, a small bank of switches set in a gray panel. “The cage doors are all controlled from here,” Martial said, gesturing at the room. “State-of-the-art.” He kept walking, leading them farther in. “Handling apes successfully requires a high degree of specialized care. Apes are hierarchical by nature—driven not just for resources but to be at the top of the social order. This does not change in captivity. Even in the absence of a food shortage, they will still sometimes kill each other if we let them. In this way they are very like humans.”
The old man slowed and turned toward Paul. “Primates come programmed to compete. It is our specialty. Some would say that it is the runaway amplification of this trait that has led to everything you see—cities, technology, civilization itself.”
Finally the old man stopped. He stood before a cage at the end of the tier. “This,” he said, “was our first chimp-gorilla hybrid. Chimp father, gorilla mother.”
The creature was strange—huge, almost like a gorilla, but lean and long. Its face was narrow. Its shoulders wider than a chimp’s. Neither chimp nor gorilla but something of both.
“Like the chimp, the gorilla has forty-eight chromosomes, but genetically, chimps are more closely related to humans than they are to gorillas.”
“How can that be if the chromosome count is different?” Lilli asked.
“It is simple. When God made humans, he fused two chimp chromosomes together. We know e
xactly which ones.”
The old man scraped a line in the sawdust with the tip of his shoe. The line was a yard long. He drew another line that intersected it, forming a V. He drew a third line that intersected the first.
He said, “Before the late 1980s, we assumed the association between the species was this. Us, gorilla, chimp.”
“But testing proved how wrong we were. The eighties showed us it wasn’t so simple as that. In actuality, it is this.” He scraped a new diagram out on the floor.
“Gorilla, us, chimp,” he said. “So, armed with this knowledge, we did the responsible thing first. We crossed the two more distantly related clades as a proof of principle, before ever involving humans. Chimps and gorillas, after all, are more different from each other than are humans and chimps. So if crossing chimps and gorillas worked, then crossing humans and chimps, well”—he spread his arms—“that would be easy.”
Paul looked into the cage. The creature crouched at the back of its enclosure. Black and massive. A dumb animal. But the things he’d seen at the park hadn’t been dumb. And the thing on the bridge certainly hadn’t been.
“Where are the other crosses?”
“Which ones?”
“The human crosses.”
“You’ve met them,” the old man said. “You’ve met them all.”
“Only three in total?”
“Two now,” said a strange, raspy voice. “Thanks to you.” The creature stepped from around the side of the cages, materializing from the shadows. It walked over to stand near Martial, its huge bulk hunched beneath a hooded sweatshirt. The beast from the bridge. It smiled its impossible teeth. Black eyes hidden beneath its heavy brow.
“Where is the soul in all this?” the old man asked Paul. He gestured to the creature, looking truly confused by the hulking thing that stood before him.
The hooded figure ignored the old man’s question. It shuffled around behind Paul and Lillie, seeming to sniff the air.
“You’ve met Trieste, I believe,” the old man said.
Paul only nodded.
The old man continued: “I look for that place where the line isn’t blurry between our species, and I can’t find it. Are these things bound for heaven, I wonder? Are they beasts with human hands?” He moved to the cage and stuck his hand inside his pocket. He pulled out an apple and tossed it inside the cage where the chimp-gorilla hybrid crouched. The hybrid picked it up and ate it in three huge bites. “Or humans with the hearts of beasts? Or something in between.”