Humans (10 page)

Finally, after three days, the specialists from the Laboratory Centre for Disease Control and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—the comparable U.S. agency—agreed that Ambassador Tukana Prat and Envoy Ponter Boddit were free of infection and could leave quarantine.

Ponter and Tukana, accompanied by five soldiers and Dr. Montego, trudged down the mining tunnel to the metal-cage elevator, and made the long ride to the surface. Apparently, word had preceded them that they were on the way up; a large number of miners and other Inco workers had assembled in the huge room up top that contained the elevator station.

“There is a crowd of reporters waiting in the parking lot,” said Hélène Gagné. “Ambassador Prat, you’ll need to make a brief statement, of course.”

Tukana lifted her eyebrow. “What sort of statement?”

“A greeting. You know, the usual diplomatic thing.”

Ponter had no idea what that meant, but, then again, it wasn’t his job. Hélène led Tukana and him out of the large room and through the doors into the Sudbury autumn. It was at least two degrees hotter than the world Ponter had left behind, maybe more, but, of course, three days had passed while they were underground; the difference in temperature didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Still, Ponter shook his head in amazement. He’d never exited this place while conscious before; the only previous time he’d come up from the mine, he’d been knocked out with a head wound. But now he had a chance to really see the giant mining site, the great tear in the ground these humans had made; the huge stretches of land from which all trees had been cleared; the vast—“parking lot,” they called it, covered with hundreds of personal vehicles.

And the smell! He reeled at the overpowering stench of this world, the nauseating reek. Adikor’s woman, Lurt, had explained the likely sources of the odors, based on Ponter’s descriptions of them: nitrogen dioxide, sulfur dioxide, and other poisons given off by the burning of petrochemicals.

Ponter had warned Tukana about what to expect, and she was discreetly trying to cover her nose with her hand. Still, as much as he fondly remembered the people here, Ponter had forgotten—or suppressed—his memories of what a truly awful job they had done of looking after their version of the planet.

Jock Krieger sat at his desk, surfing the two Webs—the public one, and the vast array of classified government sites, available over dedicated fiber-optic lines, that only those with appropriate security clearance could access.

Jock had never liked it when something came up that he didn’t understand; the only thing that made him feel a lack of control was ignorance. And so he was trying to rectify that by searching for information about geomagnetic collapses, especially with the word from Sudbury that apparently such things happened very quickly.

Jock had expected there to be thousands of Web pages devoted to this topic, and although all the news sites had cobbled together something in the last week, mostly regurgitating the same three or four “expert” opinions, there were really very few concrete studies of this phenomenon. Indeed, about half the hits he found on the World Wide Web were so-called creation scientists trying to explain away the evidence for prehistoric geomagnetic reversals, apparently because the sheer number of them would have taken up too much time if the Earth was only a few thousand years old.

But a citation for one real paper caught Jock’s eye, a 1989 piece from
Earth and Planetary Science Letters
called “Evidence Suggesting Extremely Rapid Field Variation During a Geomagnetic Reversal.” The authors were listed as Robert S. Coe and Michel Prévot, the former from the University of California at Santa Cruz, and the latter from the
Université des Sciences et Techniques
at Montpelier—the one in France, Jock presumed, rather than the one in Vermont. UCSC was definitely a legit institution, and the other one—a few clicks of the mouse—yes, it was on the up-and-up, too. But the damn article wasn’t online; like so much of the world’s wisdom pre-1990, apparently no one had bothered to computerize it. Jock sighed. He’d have to go to an actual library to get a copy.

Mary went down the corridor, then down the staircase, to Jock Krieger’s office on the first floor. She knocked, waited for him to call out “Come in,” and then did just as he had said.

“I’ve got it,” said Mary.

“Well, then, keep your distance,” said Jock, closing his Web browser window.

Mary was too excited even to get the joke then, although it came to her later that day. “I’ve figured out how to distinguish Gliksins from Neanderthals.”

Jock rose from his Aeron chair. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “It’s a piece of cake. Neanderthals have twenty-four pairs of chromosomes, whereas we have only twenty-three. It’s a glaring difference, as big on the genetic level as the difference between male and female.”

Jock’s gray eyebrows arched up toward his pompadour. “If it was that obvious, what took so long?”

Mary explained her misguided preoccupation with mitochondrial DNA.

“Ah,” said Jock, nodding. “Good work. Very good work.”

Mary smiled, but her smile soon faded. “The Paleoanthropology Society is having its annual meeting in a couple of weeks,” she said. “I’d like to present my Neanderthal karyotype there. Someone else is bound to make one sooner or later, but I’d like to get priority.”

Krieger frowned. “I’m sorry, Mary, but you’re under a non-disclosure agreement here.”

Mary was gearing up for a fight. “Yes, but—”

Jock raised a hand. “No, you’re right. Sorry. It’s hard to get out of the RAND mode. Yes, of course, you can present your discovery. The world has a right to know.”

Hélène Gagné looked out at the hundreds of journalists who had gathered in the Creighton Mine parking lot. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, speaking into a microphone on a telescoping stand, “thank you for coming. On behalf of the people of Ontario, the people of Canada, and the people of the world, it’s my pleasure to welcome the two emissaries from the parallel version of Earth. I know some of you in the media already are acquainted with Dr. Ponter Boddit, who now has the title of ‘Envoy.’” She made a gesture at Ponter, and, after a moment, Ponter realized he should probably acknowledge it somehow. He lifted his right hand and waved enthusiastically which, for some reason, prompted amusement amongst the Gliksin journalists.

“And this,” continued Hélène, “is the ambassador, Ms. Tukana Prat. I’m sure she has a few words for us.” Hélène looked expectantly at Tukana, who, after some additional gesturing by Hélène, moved to the microphone.

“We are glad to be here,” said Tukana. She then politely backed away from the mike.

Hélène looked mortified, and quickly took Tukana’s place. “What Ambassador Prat means,” she said, “is that on behalf of her people, she is pleased to open formal contact with our people, and looks forward to a productive and mutually beneficial dialogue on matters of common concern.” She turned to Tukana, beseeching approval for these comments. Tukana nodded. Hélène went on. “And she hopes that her people and ours can find numerous opportunities for trade and cultural exchange.” She again looked at Tukana; the female Neanderthal at least didn’t seem inclined to object. “And she’d like to thank Inco, the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory, the mayor and council of the city of Sudbury, the government of Canada, and the United Nations, where she will be speaking tomorrow, for their hospitality.” She looked once more at Tukana, gesturing at the mike. “Isn’t that right?”

Tukana hesitated for a moment, then moved back to the microphone stand. “Um, yes. What she said.”

The journalists howled.

Hélène leaned close to Tukana and put a hand over the mike, but Ponter could hear her anyway. “We have got a
lot
of work to do before tomorrow,” she said.

After Mary left his office, Jock Krieger looked out his window. He’d had his pick of office space, of course. Most would have opted for the lake view, but that meant looking north, away from the United States. Jock’s window faced south, but since the mansion housing the Synergy Group was on a spit of land, Jock’s view did include a lovely marina. He steepled his fingers in front of his face, stared out at his world, and thought.

Tukana and Ponter were both astonished by the Canadian Forces jet that took them to Ottawa. Although their people had developed helicopters, jet planes were unknown on the Neanderthal world.

After Tukana got over the shock of being airborne, she turned to Hélène. “I am sorry,” said the ambassador. “I believe I did not live up to your requirements earlier today.”

Hélène frowned. “Well, let’s just say that humans here expect a little more pomp and circumstance.”

Tukana’s translator bleeped twice.

“You know,” said Hélène, “a little more ceremony, some more kind words.”

“But you said nothing of substance,” said Tukana.

Hélène smiled. “Exactly. The prime minister is quite easygoing; you won’t have any trouble with him tonight. But tomorrow you’ll face the General Assembly of the United Nations, and they’ll expect you to speak at some length.” She paused. “Forgive me, but I thought you were a career diplomat?”

“I am,” said Tukana, defensively. “I have spent time in Evsoy and Ranilass and Nalkanu, representing the interests of Saldak. But we try to get to the point as quickly as possible in such discussions.”

“Don’t you worry about offending people by being brusque?”

“That is why ambassadors travel to these places instead of doing negotiations by telecommunications. It allows us to smell the pheromones of those we are talking with, and them to smell ours.”

“Does that work when you’re addressing a large group?”

“Oh, yes. I have had negotiations that have involved ten people or even eleven.”

Hélène felt her jaw dropping. “You will be speaking before eighteen hundred people tomorrow. Will you be able to detect whether you are giving offense to anyone in a group that large?”

“Not unless the offended individual happens to be one of those closest to me.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a few pointers.”

Tukana nodded. “As I believe you would say, I am all ears.”

Mary had returned to her second-floor lab, and was now sitting in a black leather swivel chair, the kind of lush executive furnishings never found in a professor’s university office. She had swung around, away from her desk, and was looking out the large north-facing window at Lake Ontario. She knew Toronto was opposite Rochester, but even on a clear day she couldn’t see it from here; the far shore was beyond the horizon. The world’s tallest freestanding structure, the CN Tower, was right on Toronto’s lakeshore. She’d half hoped it, at least, would stick up over the curve of the Earth’s surface, but…

But she remembered Ponter saying that it had been a mistake to have his Companion implant, Hak, programmed with his dead wife’s voice. Instead of giving comfort, it had been a painful reminder of things lost. Perhaps it was just as well that Mary couldn’t see any part of Toronto through her window.

Seabreeze had been a delightful place in the summer, she’d been told, but now that fall was beginning, it was getting fairly grim. Mary had become partial to the news on WROC, the local CBS affiliate, but every weather forecast she had heard used the term “lake effect”—something she’d never encountered when she’d lived on the north side of the same lake. Toronto was reasonably snow-free in winter, but apparently Rochester got hammered with the white stuff, thanks to cool air moving down from Canada picking up moisture as it traveled over Lake Ontario.

Mary got a coffee mug, filled it with her favorite potion of Maxwell House laced with chocolate milk, and took a sip. She’d become quite taken with Upstate Dairy’s Extreme Chocolate Milk, which, like the fabulous Heluva Good French Onion Dip, wasn’t available in Toronto. There were, she supposed, a few compensations for being away from home…

Mary’s reverie was broken by the phone on her desk ringing. She put down her coffee mug. There were very few people who had her number here—and it wasn’t an internal Synergy Group call; those were heralded by a different ring.

She picked up the black handset. “Hello?”

“Professor Vaughan?” said a woman’s voice.

“Yes?”

“It’s Daria.”

Mary felt her spirits lifting. Daria Klein—her grad student, back at York University. Of course, Mary had given her new phone number to her old department; after leaving them in the lurch just before the beginning of classes, it had been the least she could do.

“Daria!” exclaimed Mary. “How good to hear from you!” Mary pictured the slim brown-haired girl’s angular, smiling face.

“It’s nice to hear your voice, too,” said Daria. “I hope you don’t mind me phoning. I didn’t just want to send an e-mail about this.” She could practically hear Daria jumping up and down.

“About what?”

“About Ramses!”

Mary’s first thought was to quip, “You know, they’re only ninety-seven percent effective,” but she didn’t. Daria was obviously referring to the ancient Egyptian body whose DNA she’d been working on. “I take it the results are in,” said Mary.

“Yes, yes! It is indeed a member of the Ramses line—presumably Ramses the First! Chalk up another success for the Vaughan Technique!”

Mary probably blushed a bit. “That’s great,” she said. But it was Daria who had done the painstaking sequencing. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” said Daria. “The people at Emory are delighted.”

“Wonderful,” said Mary. “Great work. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks,” said Daria again.

“So,” said Mary, “how are things at York?”

“Same old same old,” said Daria. “The teaching assistants are talking about going on strike, the Yeomen are getting slaughtered, and the provincial government has announced more cutbacks.”

Mary gave a rueful laugh. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well,” said Daria, “you know.” She paused. “The real scary news is that a woman was raped on campus earlier this week. It was written up in the
Excalibur
.”

Mary’s heart stopped for a second. “My God,” she said. She swiveled her chair back to look out the window again, visualizing York.

“Yeah,” said Daria. “It happened near here, too—near Farquharson.”

“Did they say who the victim was?”

“No. No details were given.”

“Did they catch the rapist?”

“Not yet.”

Mary took a deep breath. “Be careful, Daria. Be very careful.”

“I will,” said Daria. “Josh is meeting me here after work every day.” Josh—Mary never could remember his last name—was Daria’s boyfriend, a law student at Osgoode Hall.

“Good,” said Mary. “That’s good.”

“Anyway,” said Daria, her tone one of determination to move things back to a lighter note, “I just wanted to let you know about Ramses. I’m sure there’s going to be a fair bit of press coverage for it. Someone’s coming by the lab tomorrow from the CBC.”

“That’s great,” said Mary, her mind racing.

“I’m really pumped,” agreed Daria. “This is
so
cool.”

Mary smiled. It was indeed.

“Anyway, I’ll let you go,” said Daria. “I just wanted to bring you up to date. Talk to you again!”

“’Bye,” said Mary.

“’Bye,” repeated Daria, and the phone went dead.

Mary tried to put down the handset, but her hand was shaking, and she missed the cradle.

Another rape.

But did that mean another rapist?

Or…or…or…

Or was the monster, the animal, the one she had failed to report, striking again?

Mary felt her stomach turning over, as though she were in an airplane locked in a nose dive.

Damn it. God damn it.

If she had reported the rape—if she’d alerted the police, the campus newspaper…

Yes, it had been weeks since she herself had been attacked. There was no reason to think it was the same rapist. But, on the other hand, how long does the thrill, the high, of violating someone last? How long does it take to muster the courage—the awful, soul-destroying courage—to commit such a crime again?

Mary had warned Daria. Not just now, but early on, via e-mail from Sudbury, Ontario. But Daria was only one of thousands of women at York, one of…

Mary had co-taught with the Women’s Studies Department; she knew the correct feminist phraseology was that all adult females were
women
. But Mary was thirty-nine now—her birthday had come and gone, unremarked by anyone—and frosh at York were as young as eighteen. Oh, they were indeed women…but they were also girls, at least in comparison to Mary, many away from home for the first time, just beginning to find their way in life.

And a beast was preying on them. A beast that, perhaps, she had let get away.

Mary looked out the window again, but this time she was glad she couldn’t see Toronto.

A while later—Mary had no real idea how long—the door to her lab opened, and Louise Benoît stuck her head through. “Hey, Mary, how ’bout some dinner?”

Mary swiveled her leather chair to look at Louise.

“Mon dieu,”
exclaimed Louise.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a de mal?”

Mary knew enough French to understand the question. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

Louise, switching to English, sounded as though she couldn’t believe Mary’s response. “You’ve been crying.”

Mary absently lifted a hand to her cheek and drew it away. She felt her eyebrows go up in astonishment. “Oh,” she said softly, not knowing what else to fill the quiet with.

“What’s wrong?” asked Louise again.

Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Louise was the closest thing she had to a friend here in the United States. And Keisha, the rape-crisis counselor she’d spoken to in Sudbury, seemed light-years away. But…

But no. She didn’t want to talk about it; didn’t want to give voice to her pain.

Or her guilt.

Still, she had to say something. “It’s nothing,” Mary said at last. “It’s just…” She found a box of Wegman’s tissues on her desk and wiped her cheeks. “It’s just
men,
” she said.

Louise nodded sagely, as if Mary was talking about some—what would she call it? Some
affaire de coeur
that had gone wrong. Louise, Mary suspected, had had a lot of boyfriends over the years. “Men,” agreed Louise, rolling her brown eyes. “You can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.”

Mary was about to nod agreement, but, well, she had heard that on Ponter’s world what Louise had just said wasn’t true. And, Christ, Mary wasn’t some schoolgirl—not that Louise was, either. “They’re responsible for so many of the world’s problems,” said Mary.

Louise nodded at this, too, and seemed to pick up the change of emphasis. “Well, it certainly isn’t women behind most terrorist attacks.”

Mary had to agree with Louise about that, but…“But it’s not just men in foreign countries. It’s men
here
—in the U.S., and in Canada.”

Louise’s brow knitted in concern. “What happened?” she asked.

And, finally, Mary answered, at least in part. “I got a phone call from someone at York University. She said there’d been a rape on the campus.”

“Oh my God,” said Louise. “Anybody you know?”

Mary shook her head, although in fact she realized that she didn’t know the answer to that.
God,
she thought, what if it had been someone she knew—someone who had been one of her students?

“No,” said Mary, as if her headshake had been insufficient to convey her meaning. “But it depressed me.” She looked at Louise—so young, so pretty—then dropped her gaze. “It’s such a terrible crime.”

Louise nodded, and it was that same worldly, sage nod she’d given earlier as if—Mary felt a constriction in her stomach—as if, perhaps, Louise really did know whereof Mary was speaking. But Mary couldn’t explore that further without revealing her own history, and she wasn’t ready to do that—at least not yet. “Men can be so awful,” said Mary. It sounded ditzy, Bridget-Jonesish, but it was
true
.

God damn it to hell, it was true.