Hybrids (28 page)

Mary swung her head, searching for the Virgin. The giant ball was almost all the way down—and they were almost out of Times Square, making their way east on 42nd Street.

Suddenly the sky exploded—

Mary looked up. The heavenly host! The—

But no. No, just as the dropping of the ball must have been computer-controlled, so, too, apparently, was the fireworks display. A great peacock’s tail of light was opening up behind them, followed by red, white, and blue skyrockets rising toward the heavens.

Ponter’s legs were pounding up and down, muscular pistons. The crowd was thinning, and he was making good progress now. Bandra remained out in front; Adikor, with Louise still on his shoulders, fell in beside them, and they continued on, running into the night, into the new year. “Mary,” called Mary Vaughan. “Blessed Mary, come back!”

United Nations headquarters was just over a mile east of Times Square. It took ninety minutes to get there on foot, fighting traffic and crowds all the way, but at last they made it, and got safely inside—a Gliksin security guard recognized Ponter, and let them in.

The visions had ended shortly after midnight, stopping as abruptly as they had begun. Mary had a splitting headache, and felt empty and cold inside. “What did you see?” she asked Louise.

Louise shook her head slowly back and forth, clearly recalling the wonder of it all. “God,” she said. “God the Father, just like on the roof of the Sistine Chapel. It was…” She sought a word. “It was
perfect
.”

They spent the rest of the night on the twentieth floor of the Secretariat Building, sleeping in a conference room, listening to the wild sounds and sirens far below—the visions were over, but the chaos had only just begun.

In the morning, they watched the sporadic news coverage—some stations weren’t operating at all—trying to piece together what had happened.

Earth’s magnetic field had been collapsing for over four months now—for the first time since consciousness had emerged on this world. The field’s strength had been fluctuating, lines of force converging and diverging wildly.

“Well,” said Louise, hands on hips, staring at the TV set, “it wasn’t exactly a
crash
, but…”

“But what?” said Mary. They were both exhausted, filthy, and badly bruised.

“I’d told Jock the biggest problem related to the magnetic-field collapse wouldn’t be ultraviolet radiation getting through, or anything like that. Rather, I said it would be the effects on human consciousness.”

“It was like what I’d experienced in Veronica Shannon’s test chamber,” said Mary, “only much more intense.”

Ponter nodded. “But, as in Veronica’s chamber, neither I nor, I’m sure, any other Barast experienced anything.”

“But everyone else,” said Mary, and she gestured at the television set, “across the whole damn planet it seems, had a religious experience.”

“Or a UFO abduction experience,” said Louise. “Or, at least, some sort of encounter with something that wasn’t really there.”

Mary nodded. It would be days—months!—before they had accurate death tolls and damage estimates, but it seemed clear that hundreds of thousands, if not millions, had perished on New Year’s Eve—or New Year’s Day, in time zones east of New York.

And, of course, the debates would continue for years about what the experience—at least one commentator was already calling it “Last Day”—had meant.

Pope Mark II was to address the faithful later today.

But what could he possibly say? Would he validate the sightings of Jesus and the Holy Virgin while dismissing the reported encounters with deities and prophets and messiahs sacred to Muslims and Mormons, to Hindus and Jews, to Scientologists, Wiccans, and Maori, to Cherokees and Mi’kmaqs and Algonquins and Pueblo Indians, to Inuit and Buddhists?

And what about the UFO sightings, the gray aliens, the bug-eyed monsters?

The Pope had some ’splainin’ to do.

All religious leaders did.

Adikor, Bandra, and Louise were absorbed by a report from the BBC, covering events that transpired yesterday in the Middle East. Mary tapped Ponter on the shoulder, and when he looked at her, she motioned for him to come to the far side of the conference room.

“Yes, Mare?” he said softly.

“It’s all a crock, isn’t it?” she said.

Hak bleeped, but Mary ignored it.

“Look, I’ve changed my mind. About our child…”

She saw Ponter’s broad face fall.

“No, no!” said Mary, reaching out, touching his short, muscular forearm. “No, I still want to have a child with you. But forget what I said in Vissan’s cabin. Our daughter should not have the God organ.”

Ponter’s golden eyes searched for something in her own. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yes, finally, for once in my life, I’m really sure of something.” She let her hand slide down his arm, and intertwined her fingers with his.

It had been six months since New Year’s Eve, and there had been no repetition of the visions. The magnetic field enclosing that version of Earth continued to fluctuate wildly, though, so there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t stimulate the minds of
Homo sapiens
in the same way again. Maybe, in fourteen or fifteen years, when the field reversal was complete, the people of Mare’s world—still no consensus on a better name for it—wouldn’t have to worry about a reoccurrence.

In the interim, though, Veronica Shannon, and others doing similar research, had become media celebrities as the world rebuilt, explaining what had happened…at least to those who would listen. In North America, church attendance had hit an all-time high—and then an all-time low. A cease-fire was holding in Israel. Muslim extremists were being ousted throughout the Arab world.

But here, on Jantar, the Barast world, whose field collapse had been over for a decade now, things continued as they always had, devoid of thoughts of gods and demons and alien beings.

Mary Vaughan had always wanted a summer wedding—her first one, to Colm, had been in February. But since Neanderthal bonding ceremonies were held outdoors, it was even more important to her this time that the festivities happen during the warm months.

The bonding ceremony would take place here, in the wilderness between Saldak Center and Saldak Rim. Mary had attended one previous bonding, that of Ponter’s daughter Jasmel Ket to Tryon Rugal. It had been most awkward: Daklar Bolbay, who was Jasmel’s former guardian, Adikor’s accuser, and, for a brief time, Mary’s rival for Ponter’s affection, had shown up unexpectedly. Even with her there, though, it had been a small ceremony, as was the Barast norm.

But Mary had also always wanted a big wedding. When she and Colm had tied the knot, they’d only invited their parents and siblings—simple and, more importantly, inexpensive, an event suited to their grad students’ budget.

But this time out, there were a lot of people on hand, at least by Neanderthal standards. Adikor was there, along with his woman-mate Lurt and son Dab. Also present were Ponter’s parents, two of the nicest 142s you’d ever want to meet. And Ponter’s daughters Jasmel and Mega were on hand, plus Jasmel’s man-mate Tryon. There, too, were Hapnar and Dranna and their man-mates. Because Mary wanted a maid of honor, even though Barasts had no such thing, Louise Benoît was on hand, as well. And, because he’d asked to attend—and nothing could be denied him during the celebrations of the thousandth month since he’d liberated the Barasts by introducing Companion technology—also on hand was Lonwis Trob, now a whopping 109, and only slightly worse for wear after having a mechanical heart installed.

None of the women present were showing yet, but they would be soon: generation 149 was on its way, and Mary was expecting, as were Lurt, Jasmel, Hapnar, and Dranna.

Ponter hadn’t yet arrived. It was traditional for the man who was about to be bonded to go hunting, procuring a food offering to bring to his intended. For her part, Mary had gathered a large quantity of pine nuts, roots, vegetables, edible fungi, and more as her offering.

“Here comes Daddy!” shouted little Mega, pointing. Mary looked up. Off to the west, Ponter had appeared on the horizon. He was carrying things in each of his hands, although Mary couldn’t yet make out what they were.

“And here comes Mother!” said Hapnar, pointing to the east. Sure enough, Bandra was approaching from that direction.

Ponter had said that double ceremonies were rare, but Mary had thought it so very appropriate: to be bonded to her man-mate Ponter
and
her woman-mate Bandra simultaneously. The sky overhead was cloudless, and the air was warm and dry. Mary felt wonderful—in love, loved, loving life.

Ponter and Bandra had equal distances to go, but the terrain was rougher to the west, and Bandra arrived at the clearing first. She hugged her daughters, then greeted Ponter’s parents—her own lived far away, but, Mary knew, were watching transmissions being sent by Bandra’s Companion. She came over to Mary and kissed and licked her face.

Bandra looked so happy, it made Mary’s heart want to burst. It had been ages since Bandra had seen Harb; her man-mate knew Bandra had moved to the other world, but Bandra had taken no steps to dissolve her bond to him—because, she said, if she did, he’d just seek another woman-mate. Perhaps, at some point, he’d dissolve their union himself—but enough about Harb, Mary thought. Today was a day for making, not breaking, bonds.

Bandra was wearing a backpack, which she lowered to the ground. It contained her offering of food for Mary. Mary had brought twice as much, but only half was for Bandra; the rest was for Ponter.

Soon—finally!—Ponter arrived. Mary was surprised. When she’d attended Jasmel and Tryon’s bonding, Tryon had shown up with a freshly killed deer slung over his shoulders; the blood streaming from its many spear wounds had turned Mary’s stomach. But Ponter was holding two large cubical containers—Mary recognized them as thermal storage units. She looked at him questioningly, but he just set them down out of the way. Then he hugged Mary, holding her for a wonderfully long time.

No officials were needed for the ceremony, of course; the whole thing, after all, was being recorded from multiple Companion viewpoints at the alibi archives. And so the three of them simply began, with Ponter standing on one side of Mary and Bandra on the other.

Mary turned to Ponter and spoke—in the Neanderthal tongue, which she’d spent the last half year learning, patiently taught by Bandra. “I promise, dear Ponter, to hold you in my heart twenty-nine days a month, and to hold you in my arms whenever Two become One.”

Ponter took one of Mary’s hands. She continued: “I promise that your health and your happiness will be as important to me as my own. If, at any time, you tire of me, I promise to release you without acrimony, and with the best interests of our children as my highest priority.”

Ponter’s golden eyes were beaming. Mary turned to Bandra. “I promise, dear Bandra, to hold you in my heart twenty-nine days a month, and to hold you in my arms whenever Two are not One. I promise that your health and your happiness will be as important to me as my own, and if, at any time, you tire of me, I promise to release you without acrimony.”

Bandra, who for her part, had been becoming fluent in English—at least those words that she could pronounce—said softly in that language, “Grow tired of you? Never in a million years.”

Mary smiled, then turned back to Ponter. It was his turn to speak now, and he did so: “I promise,” he said in his wonderfully deep, resonant voice, “to hold you in my heart twenty-nine days a month, and to hold you in my arms whenever Two become One. I promise that your happiness and well-being will be as important to me as my own. If you ever tire of me, I promise to release you without pain, and with the best interests of our child—our very special hybrid child—as my highest priority.”

Mary squeezed Ponter’s hand, and turned back to Bandra, who repeated the same vows Mary had made to her, then added, again in English, “I love you.”

Mary kissed Bandra again. “I love you, too,” she said. And then she turned and kissed Ponter, long and hard. “And you know I love you, big fella.”

“They’re bonded!” said little Mega, clapping her hands together.

Adikor moved in and hugged Ponter. “Congratulations!”

And Louise hugged Mary. “
Félicitations, mon amie!
”

“And now,” exclaimed Ponter, “it’s time for the feast!” He went over to the cubical containers he’d brought with him and opened them up. The lids were lined with reflective foil. Ponter pulled out large paper bags from one, and then the other, and Mary saw on them the familiar drawing of a white-haired Gliksin with glasses and a goatee.

“Astonishment!” exclaimed Mary, in good Barast fashion. “Kentucky Fried Chicken!”

Ponter was grinning his foot-wide grin. “Only the very best for you.”

Mary smiled back at him. “Oh, yes, indeed, my love,” she said. “The very best—of both worlds.”

Robert J. Sawyer lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, and is Writer in Residence at the Toronto Public Library’s Merril Collection of Science Fiction, Speculation and Fantasy.

Rob has a bachelor’s degree in Radio and Television Arts from Toronto’s Ryerson University—so it’s no surprise that he keeps turning up on both those media. He’s got 200 television appearances under his belt (including
Rivera Live
with Geraldo Rivera) and almost as many radio interviews (including National Public Radio’s
Talk of the Nation
). In addition, he’s hosted programs for CBC Radio and Discovery Channel Canada, and is a frequent commentator about science fiction on Space, Canada’s national SF cable network, and about science fact on Newsworld, Canada’s cable news network. In 2002, on the twentieth anniversary of his graduation, Ryerson presented him with its Alumni Achievement Award, making him one of only thirty out of 100,000 alumni so honored to date.

Rob’s other honors include a Nebula Award from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America for Best Novel of the Year (for
The Terminal Experiment
); six best-novel Hugo Award nominations (for
The Terminal Experiment, Starplex, Frameshift, Factoring Humanity, Calculating God,
and
Hominids
); SF awards in France, Japan, and Spain; seven Aurora Awards (Canada’s top honor in speculative fiction); the
Science Fiction Chronicle
Reader Award for Best Short Story of the Year; and an Arthur Ellis Award from the Crime Writers of Canada.

Since graduating in 1982, Rob has had all of two jobs: four months working at Bakka, Toronto’s SF specialty store, immediately followed by eight months back at Ryerson, demonstrating TV studio-production techniques.

Ever since, he’s been a full-time freelance writer, although he spent most of the 1980s doing over 200 articles for magazines and newspapers (usually about computers or personal finance), and writing brochures, newsletters, and other materials for corporations and government offices.

Rob’s first novel,
Golden Fleece
, came out in 1990, and by 1992 he had given up nonfiction work to concentrate exclusively on SF. In 1997, his wife, Carolyn Clink, left her job in the printing industry to come work full-time as Rob’s assistant, and in 2002 they started their own corporation, SFWRITER.COM Inc., named in honor of Rob’s massive, award-winning Web site at www.sfwriter.com.