Hybrids (18 page)

A contingent of local female officials and two local silver-clad Exhibitionists were on hand, and again speeches were made, including remarks by a woman introduced as the president of the local Gray Council. She was, Jock guessed, about his own age—which would make her what? Part of generation 142, he supposed. She had shaved off all her head hair except for a long silver ponytail protruding directly from her occipital bun; Jock thought she looked repellent, even for a Neanderthal.

She concluded her remarks by mentioning the meal they were going to enjoy later that day, with huge oysters and even huger lobsters. Then she called on Ponter Boddit to say some more.

“Thank you,” said Ponter, moving out to stand in front of everyone. Jock was having a bit of trouble hearing him; the Neanderthals had no notion of microphone stands or loudspeakers for speeches, since voices were picked up by and relayed to Companions without any such extra equipment.

“We have worked hard,” continued Ponter, “to try to find the exact spot on our version of Earth that corresponds to the location of your United Nations headquarters. As you know, we do not have satellites—and so we do not have anything as good as your global positioning system. Our surveyors are still arguing among themselves—we might be off by several tens of meters, although we are hoping to resolve that issue. Still…” He turned and pointed. “See those trees there? We believe that they mark the location of the main entrance to the Secretariat building.” He turned. “And that swamp, over there? That is where the General Assembly is located.”

Jock looked on in amazement. This was New York City—without the millions of people, without the air that made your eyes sting, without the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the thousands of taxis, the jostling crowds, the stench, the noise. This was Manhattan…as it had been only a few hundred years ago, as it had been back in 1626 when Peter Minuit bought it from the Indians for $24, as it had been before it had been paved over and built up and polluted.

The others in the delegation were chatting among themselves; those who were speaking English seemed to be echoing Jock’s thoughts.

Ponter began walking, heading toward the shore of the East River. It was closer than it should have been—but, then again, much of modern Manhattan was recovered land. The Neanderthal knelt by the shore and dipped curved hands into the river, splashing water repeatedly against his broad face.

Jock noted that a few of the others wore bland expressions, the significance lost on them. But it wasn’t lost on him.

Ponter Boddit had just washed his face with raw, untreated, unprocessed, unfiltered,
unpolluted
water from the East River.

Jock shook his head, hating what his people had done to their world, and wishing there was some way they could start over, with a fresh, clean slate.

Mary and Bandra had watched the transmissions from the Exhibitionists on Donakat Island. It was fun seeing Ponter on what amounted to Neanderthal TV, and certainly the project to establish another portal was fascinating.

Ponter had spent some time describing the difficulties with building a portal on the surface; his original quantum computer had been buried deep underground to shield it from solar radiation that might promote decoherence of the quantum registers. But even when Ponter and Adikor had made their breakthrough—literally breaking through into another universe—a second group of Barast researchers in Europe had been attempting to factor similarly large numbers. The members of that team had been female, and they apparently were
en route
to Donakat by ocean ship to provide their expertise in shielding techniques.

“It looks like you’ve got yourself a good man there,” said Bandra.

Mary smiled. “Thanks.”

“How long have you known him?”

Mary looked away from Bandra’s wheat-colored eyes. “Only since August 3rd.”

Bandra tipped her head, listening to her own Companion translate the date. Mary thought Bandra was going to say something scolding about how short a period of time it was; after all, Mary had never lost an opportunity to tell her sister Christine that she was moving too fast, falling head over heels for one “real find” after another. But instead Bandra said, “You are very lucky to have found him.”

Mary nodded. She
was
lucky. And, besides, she knew lots of people who had had whirlwind romances before. Yes, she’d known Colm a lot longer than she’d known Ponter by the time Colm proposed and she accepted, but she’d had doubts back then.

She had no doubts now.

When something felt this right, there was no reason to delay.

“
Carpe diem,
” said Mary.

Bandra’s translator bleeped.

“Sorry,” said Mary. “That’s Latin—another language. It means ‘seize the day.’ Don’t spend your whole life fretting; just grab the moment, and go for it.”

“A good philosophy,” said Bandra. She got up from the couch. “We should attend to the evening meal.”

Mary nodded, rose, and followed Bandra into the food-preparation area. Bandra had a large vacuum box that stored food without refrigeration, and a laser cooker, which employed the same sort of tunable-laser technology used in the decontamination chambers.

The top of the vacuum box had a square screen set into it, displaying an inventory of the contents so that the seal didn’t have to be broken to determine what was inside. “Mammoth?” said Bandra, looking at the list.

“My goodness, yes!” said Mary. “I’ve been dying to try some.”

Bandra smiled, opened the vacuum box—which hissed when she did so—and selected a pair of chops. She transferred them to the laser cooker and spoke some instructions to it.

“It must be hard, hunting mammoth,” said Mary.

“I’ve never done it myself,” replied Bandra. “Those whose contribution it is to do so say there’s a simple technique.” She shrugged a little. “But, as you would say, the putative evil one lurks in minutiae.”

Mary blinked, trying to decipher Christine’s translation of what Bandra had just said. “‘The devil is in the details,’ you mean.”

“Exactamundo!” said Bandra.

Mary laughed. “I’m going to miss you when I leave.”

Bandra smiled. “I’m going to miss you, too. Whenever you need a place to stay in this world, you’re welcome here.”

“Thank you, but…”

Bandra raised one of her large hands. “Oh, I know. You only plan to come to visit when Two are One, and then you’ll be spending time with Ponter. And I will…”

“I’m so sorry, Bandra. There must be something we can do.”

“Let’s not dwell on it. Let’s just enjoy the time we’ve got before you have to leave.”

“
Carpe diem?
” said Mary.

Bandra smiled. “Exactamundo.”

The dinner was excellent; mammoth had a rich, complex flavor, and the maple-sugar salad dressing Bandra prepared was to-die-for.

Mary leaned back in the saddle-seat and sighed contentedly. “It’s a pity you people don’t have wine.”

“Wine,” repeated Bandra. “What is that?”

“A beverage. Alcohol. Fermented grapes.”

“Is it delicious?”

“Well, um, that’s not the point—or, at least, it’s only
part
of the point. Alcohol affects the central nervous system, at least in Gliksins. It makes us feel mellow, relaxed.”

“I am relaxed,” said Bandra.

Mary smiled. “Actually, so am I.”

The Globe and Mail
Ponter had brought Mary had reported the results of a study to determine the funniest joke in the world. That didn’t mean the one that made people laugh the hardest—it wasn’t an attempt to replicate Monty Python’s secret-weapon joke, which would cause anyone who heard it to die laughing. Rather, it was a project to find a joke that cut across cultural lines so that almost all human beings found it funny.

Mary decided to try it out on Bandra; since it happened to be a hunting joke, she thought the Neanderthal might enjoy it. She slipped a few appropriate references into their conversation, so that Bandra would have the required background, and then, around 9:00P.M.—late in the sixth daytenth—she trotted it out:

“Okay, okay. So, there are these two guys, see, and they’re out hunting, right? And one of them suddenly collapses—just falls to the ground. He doesn’t seem to be breathing, and his eyes are glazed over. So the other guy, he calls 9-1-1. That’s our emergency telephone number, since we don’t have Companions. And the guy—he’s on a cell phone, see?—he’s all panicky, and he says, ‘Hey, I’m out here hunting with my friend Bob, and he just keeled over. I’m afraid he’s dead. What should I do? What should I do?’

“And the emergency operator says, ‘Calm down, sir. Take a deep breath; let’s take this one step at a time. First, let’s make sure that Bob is really dead.’

“So the guy says, ‘Okay,’ and the operator hears him put down the phone and walk away. And then—
blam!
—there’s a gunshot. And the guy comes back on the phone and says, ‘Okay. Now what?’ ”

Bandra exploded with laughter. She’d been drinking pine tea; the way the Neanderthal throat was hooked up prevented it from spurting out her nostrils, but if she’d been a Gliksin, doubtless it would have, given how hard she was laughing. “That’s
awful!
” she declared, wiping away tears.

Mary was grinning, probably wide enough to rival Ponter. “Isn’t it, though?”

They spent the rest of the evening talking about their families, telling jokes, listening to recorded Neanderthal music pumped simultaneously into their cochlear implants, and just generally having a wonderful time. Mary had had several close female friends before she’d married Colm, but had drifted away from all of them during the marriage, and hadn’t really acquired any new ones since the split. One of the nice things about the Neanderthal system, Mary mused, was that it would leave plenty of time for her friendships with other women.

And, despite them coming literally from different worlds, Bandra was certainly the kind of friend she would choose: warm, witty, giving, and brilliant—someone she could share a silly joke with, as well as discuss the latest breakthroughs in science.

After a bit, Bandra brought out a
partanlar
set—the same game Mary had played with Ponter. Ponter’s board had been made of polished wood, with the alternating squares stained either light or dark. As befitted a geologist, Bandra’s was made of polished stone, the squares black or white.

“Oh, good!” said Mary. “I know this game! Ponter taught me.”

In chess and checkers, players sat opposite each other, each trying to move their armies of pieces toward the other’s side of the board. But
partanlar
didn’t have that directionality of play—there was no advancing or retreating. And so Bandra set the board up on a little table in front of one of the couches, and then sat on the couch, leaving plenty of room for Mary to sit beside her.

They played for about an hour—but it was the pleasant something-to-do kind of play that Mary liked, not the competitive let’s-see-who’s-better competition Colm favored. Neither Mary nor Bandra really seemed to care who won, and they each took delight in the other’s clever moves.

“It’s fun having you around,” said Bandra.

“It’s fun being here,” said Mary.

“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.”

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:

“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.”