Humans (5 page)

“You make it sound very tempting, Dr. Krieger.”

“Jock. Call me Jock.” A pause. “Look, I used to be with the RAND Corporation. I’m a mathematician; back when I graduated from Princeton, seventy percent of all math grads from major universities applied for jobs at RAND. That was where you got the money and resources to do pure research. In fact, the joke was that RAND actually stood for ‘Research And No Development’—it’s a think tank in the purest sense.”

“What
does
it stand for?”

“Just ‘Research and Development,’ supposedly. But the fact is its funding came from the U.S. Air Force, and it existed for a fundamentally unpleasant reason: to study nuclear conflict. I’m a game theorist; that’s my specialty, and that’s why I was there—doing simulations of nuclear brinksmanship.” He paused. “You ever see
Dr. Strangelove
?”

Mary nodded. “Years ago.”

“Old George C. Scott, he’s clutching a ‘BLAND’ corporation study there in the War Room. Freeze-frame it next time you’re watching the DVD. The study is labeled
World Targets in Megadeaths
. That’s about right for what we had to do. But the Cold War is over, Professor Vaughan, and now we’re looking at something incredibly positive.” He paused. “You know, despite its military roots, RAND did lots of far-out thinking. One of our studies was called
Habitable Planets for Man,
and it was all about the likelihood of finding earthlike planets elsewhere in the galaxy. Stephen Dole put that one together in 1964, just when I started at RAND. But, even then, back in the glory days of the space program, very few of us seriously thought we’d have access to another earthlike world in our lifetime. But if that portal reopens, we will. And we want contact to go as positively as possible. When the first Neanderthal embassy opens up—”

“A Neanderthal embassy!” exclaimed Mary.

“We’re thinking ahead, Professor Vaughan. That’s what Synergy is all about—not just the best of both worlds, but making something that’s
more
than the sum of its parts. It’s going to be
wild
. And we want you along for the ride.”

Ponter and Daklar walked through the square, chatting. Lots of children were about, playing games, chasing each other, having fun.

“I’ve always wanted to ask a man,” said Daklar. “Do you miss your children when Two are separate?”

A little boy—a 148—ran right in front of them, catching a flying triangle. Ponter never regretted having two daughters, but sometimes he did wish he had a son, as well. “Of course,” he said. “I think about them constantly.”

“They’re such wonderful girls, Jasmel and Mega,” said Daklar.

“I thought you and Jasmel crossed spears while I was away,” said Ponter.

Daklar laughed ruefully. “Oh, yes, indeed. She spoke on behalf of Adikor at the
dooslarm basadlarm,
and I was the one accusing him. But I’m no fool, Ponter. Obviously I was wrong, and she was right.”

“So things are pleasant between the two of you now?”

“It’ll take some time,” said Daklar. “You know how Jasmel is. Stubborn as a stalactite—hanging on despite everything trying to pull her down.”

Ponter laughed. He did indeed know Jasmel—and, it seemed, Daklar knew her, too. “She
can
be difficult,” Ponter said.

“She’s just turned 225 months old,” said Daklar. “Of course she’s difficult. So was I, at her age.” She paused. “There’s a lot of pressure on young ladies, you know. She’s expected to take two mates before winter. I know Tryon is likely to become her man-mate, but she’s still searching for a woman-mate.”

“She’ll have no trouble,” said Ponter. “She’s quite a find.”

Daklar smiled. “That she is. She’s got all of Klast’s best qualities and…” She paused again, perhaps wondering if she were being too forward. “And all of yours, as well.”

But Ponter was pleased by the remark. “Thank you,” he said.

Daklar looked down. “When Klast died, Jasmel and Mega were very sad. Megameg was too young to really understand, but Jasmel…It’s hard for a girl, not having a mother.” She fell silent, and Ponter wondered if she was gathering for him to volunteer that Jasmel had had an excellent substitute. Ponter was beginning to think that was probably true, but he didn’t know what to say. “I’ve tried to be a good
tabant,
” continued Daklar, “but it’s not the same as having their mother look after them.”

Again, Ponter wasn’t sure what the politic answer was. “No,” he said at last. “I imagine it’s not.”

“I know there was no way they could have gone to live with you and Adikor,” said Daklar. “Two girls, out at the Rim…”

“No,” agreed Ponter. “That would have been impossible.”

“Did you…” Daklar trailed off, looking again at the closely cropped grass covering the square. “Did you resent the fact that I ended up looking after them?”

Ponter shrugged a little. “You were Klast’s woman-mate. You were the logical one for her to name as
tabant
.”

Daklar tipped her head slightly. Her voice was soft. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

Ponter closed his eyes and exhaled. “No, it wasn’t. Yes, I suppose I resented it—forgive me for saying so. I mean, I am their
father;
their genetic relative. You…”

Daklar waited for him to go on, but when it became clear that he wasn’t inclined to, she finished his thought for him. “I wasn’t a blood relation,” she said. “They weren’t my children, and yet I ended up taking care of them.”

Ponter said nothing; there was no polite response.

“It’s all right,” said Daklar, touching Ponter’s arm for a beat. “It’s all right for you to feel that way. It’s natural.”

Several geese flew by overhead, and some thrushes that had been sitting on the grass took wing as the two of them drew nearer. “I love my children very much,” Ponter said.

“I love them, too,” said Daklar. “I know they’re not mine, but I’ve lived with them their whole lives, and, well, I love them as if they were.”

Ponter stopped walking and looked at Daklar. He’d never really delved into this type of relationship before; he’d always sort of assumed that another person’s children were a bit of a nuisance—certainly Adikor’s Dab was a mischievous sort. In a normal family, Daklar would have had children of her own. A daughter or a son of generation 148 would still be living with her mother and her mother’s woman-mate, and a daughter of generation 147 would also still be at home, although she’d be pairing off with a man-mate and a woman-mate of her own in the next several months.

“You look surprised,” said Daklar. “I
do
love Jasmel and Mega.”

“Well, I—I guess I never thought about it.”

Daklar smiled. “So you see, we have a lot in common. We both loved the same woman. And we both love the same children.”

Ponter and Daklar decided to start by watching a play performed in an outdoor amphitheater. Ponter had always liked live theater, and this was one of his favorites:
Wamlar and Kolapa,
a historical piece about a male hunter and a female gatherer. This kind of drama could only be performed when Two became One and both male and female actors could work together. The plot depended on all sorts of twists and turns that would be impossible in the modern Companion era: people going missing, others failing to communicate over distances, still others being unable to prove that they’d been at a specific place at a specific time, and conflicting accounts of events.

Ponter found his knee pressing against Daklar’s as they sat cross-legged side by side in the amphitheater.

It really
was
a good play.

After the play, Ponter and Daklar went to visit little Megameg, who was playing with friends. She seemed delighted to see her father and ran toward him from across the yard.

“Hey, sweetie,” Ponter said, lifting her up.

“Hi, Daddy!” She looked over at Daklar and said, in a tone that Ponter realized was equally warm, “Hi, Daklar!”

He felt a brief twinge, wishing that there was some obvious preference for him over her, for her biological father over her legal guardian. But it quickly passed. His young daughter, he knew, had plenty of love to go around. He squeezed her again, then put her down.

“Watch me do a trick!” she said. She ran a few paces away from them and did a back flip.

“Wow!” said Ponter, beaming with pride.

“Wonderful!” said Daklar, clapping her hands together. Ponter looked at Daklar and smiled. Daklar smiled back at him.

Megameg evidently wanted to do another trick, but Ponter and Daklar weren’t looking at her. “Daddy! Mommy! Watch!” she shouted.

Ponter’s breath caught in his throat. Megameg looked embarrassed. “Oops!” she said in her little voice. “I mean, Daddy, Daklar—watch!”

By midafternoon, Ponter was growing increasingly nervous. After all, this
was
Two becoming One, and he wasn’t an idiot. But he hadn’t had sex with a woman—well, his first thought was he hadn’t done it since Klast had died, two ten months ago. But it had been longer than that. Oh, he had loved Klast until the day she died, but the cancer had had its effects before then. It had been…actually, he wasn’t sure. Ponter had never allowed himself to think that
this
was the last time he’d make love to Klast, that this was the final time he would slip into her, but…

But there
had
been a final time, an ultimate coupling before she was too weak to be able to do it again. That must have been a full ten month prior to her death.

So. At least thirty months. Yes, he’d been satisfied by Adikor during that span, but…

But it wasn’t the same. Physical relations between two men—or two women, for that matter—although equally signs of love, were entertainment, fun. But
sex
was the act of potential procreation.

There was no way Daklar, or any woman, could become pregnant during this Two becoming One. All the women, living together, inhaling each other’s pheromones, had their menstrual cycles synchronized. It wouldn’t be possible for any of them to get pregnant at this time of month. Yes, next year, when generation 149 was to be conceived, the High Gray Council would change the dates of Two becoming One so that they coincided with the time of maximum fertility.

Still, even if there was no chance of Daklar conceiving, it
had
been a long while since…

“Let’s take the kids over to Darson Square and get something to eat,” said Daklar.

Ponter felt his eyebrow rolling up his browridge.
The kids.
No question as to which kids. His kids.

Her kids.

Their kids.

She certainly knew the way to endear herself. Asexual overture would have left him flustered, unsure. But an outing with the kids…

It was just what he needed.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure thing.”

Ponter beckoned Megameg over to them, and they went off to find Jasmel—which was easy enough, since her Companion and Hak could communicate with each other. Lots of children were still out playing, but many adults had adjourned into homes for lovemaking. A few adults—men and women both—remained outdoors.

Ponter hadn’t really seen much in the way of children over in the Gliksin world, but he’d gathered that they weren’t left alone like this. Gliksin society was doubly wounded. First, they’d never had a purging of their gene pool, eliminating the most undesirable psychological traits. And, second, no Lonwis Trob had ever appeared to liberate them: without Companion implants and alibi recorders, Gliksins were still subject to personal assault, and, based on what little he’d seen on the Gliksin video system, children were common targets.

But here, in this world, children could roam freely day and night. Ponter wondered how parents stayed sane in the Gliksin universe.

“There she is!” said Daklar, spotting Ponter’s daughter before he himself did. Jasmel and Tryon were looking at a display of flensing implements set up in an outdoor booth.

“Jasmel!” called Ponter, waving. His daughter looked up, and he was delighted to see an instant smile, not a look of disappointment that her time with Tryon was being interrupted.

Ponter and Daklar closed the distance. “We were thinking of going to Darson Square, maybe get some buffalo to eat.”

“I should really spend a little time with my own parents,” said Tryon, whether picking up a hint from Ponter’s posture or actually wanting to do what he said, Ponter couldn’t say. Tryon leaned over and licked Jasmel’s face. “See you tonight,” he said.

“Let’s go,” said Megameg, reaching up and taking Ponter’s hand with her left one and Daklar’s hand with her right one. Jasmel fell in next to Ponter, and he put an arm around her shoulders, and the four of them headed off together.

Although Mary would have preferred a chance to sleep on it, Jock Krieger’s offer was really a no-brainer for her: it was simply too good to pass up.

And today was the only departmental meeting before the beginning of the academic year. Not everybody would be in attendance—some faculty members would still be at their cottages, or simply steadfastly refusing to come to the university prior to the first Tuesday in September. But most of her colleagues would be there, and this would be the best opportunity to arrange for them to cover her classes. Mary knew she was lucky: she’d been a woman at the right time, when York and many other universities were correcting historical imbalances in hiring practices, especially in the sciences. She’d had no trouble getting first a tenure-track position, and ultimately actual tenure, while many males of her age were still eking out an existence with sessional teaching assignments.

“Welcome back, everyone,” said Qaiser Remtulla. “I hope you all had great summers?”

There were nods from the dozen people sitting around the conference table. “That’s good,” said Qaiser. She was a Pakistani woman of fifty, dressed in a smart beige blouse and matching slacks. “Of course,” she said, grinning now, “I’m sure no one had quite so exciting a holiday as our Mary.”

Mary felt herself blushing, and Cornelius Ruskin and a couple of the others applauded briefly. “Thanks,” she said.

“But,” continued Qaiser, “if we can work it out, Mary would like to take a leave of absence.”

Across the table from her, Cornelius sat up straight. Mary smiled; he knew what was coming, and was ready to leap at his opportunity.

“Mary’s set to teach the 2000-level Genetics course; the third-year Regulation of Gene Expression course; and the fourth-year Eukaryotic Genetics course,” said Qaiser. “Plus she’s got two Ph.D. students she’s been supervising: Daria Klein, who’s doing work on ancient human DNA, and Graham Smythe, who is—what’s he doing again, Mary?”

“A reevaluation of songbird taxonomy, based on mitochondrial DNA studies.”

“Right,” said Qaiser, nodding. She looked out over her half glasses. “If anyone is interested in picking up any extra course work…”

By the first syllable of “anyone,” Cornelius Ruskin’s hand was in the air. Mary felt sorry for poor Cornelius. He was thirty-five or thirty-six, and had had his Ph.D. in genetics for eight years. But there were no full-time jobs for white males in the department. Ten years ago, he’d have been well on his way to tenure; today, he was picking up $6,000 per half course and $12,000 per full course, and living in a dump of an apartment building in Driftwood, a nearby neighborhood even students avoided—his “penthouse in the slums,” Cornelius called it.

“I’ll take Regulation,” Cornelius said. “And Eukaryotic Genetics.”

“You can have Eukaryotics and the 2000-level introductory course,” said Qaiser. “Can’t give all the plums to the same person.”

Cornelius nodded philosophically. “Deal,” he said.

“Well, in that case,” said Devon Greene, another white male, another sessional instructor, “can I have the Regulation of Gene Expression course?”

Qaiser nodded. “It’s all yours.” She looked at Karen Clee, a black woman the same age as Mary. “Can you take—let’s see—how ’bout Ms. Klein?”

The sessional instructors couldn’t supervise Ph.D. students; those duties had to go to full-time faculty. “I’d rather have the bird guy,” said Karen.

“Okay,” said Qaiser. “Who wants Ms. Klein?”

No response.

“Let me put it this way,” said Qaiser. “Who wants Ms. Klein and Mary’s old office?”

Mary smiled. She
did
have prime office space, with a nice view overlooking the greenhouse.

“Sold!” said Helen Wright.

“There it is,” said Qaiser. She turned to Mary and smiled. “It looks like we’ll be able to muddle through without you this year.”

After the departmental meeting, Mary returned to her lab. She wished that Daria and Graham, her grad students, were in today; she really owed them personal explanations.

And yet what explanation could she give? The obvious one—a great job offer in the United States—was only part of the story. Mary had had overtures from U.S. universities in the past; it wasn’t as though she had never been courted before. But she’d always turned them down, telling herself that she preferred Toronto, that she found its climate “invigorating,” that she’d miss the CBC and the wonderful live theater and Caribbana and Sleuth of Baker Street and Yorkville and Le Sélect Bistro and the ROM and smoke-free restaurants and the Blue Jays and
The Globe and Mail
and socialized medicine and the Harbourfront Reading Series.

Of course, she could tell them about the job’s perks—but the main reason she was leaving was the rape. She knew rapes happened everywhere; she’d be no safer in another city. But just as getting away from the reminders of it had helped spur her on to Sudbury to investigate the crazy story of a live Neanderthal found there, so, it seemed, the same thing would drive her now to leave Toronto again. Perhaps, had Daria been in, she could have told her about it—but there was no way she could discuss it with Graham Smythe…or any other man, at least in this world.

Mary set about packing her personal effects from the lab, putting them in an old plastic milk crate that had been kicking around the department for years. She had a wall calendar with pictures of covered bridges; she also had a framed snapshot of her two nephews, and a coffee mug with the
Canada AM
logo on it—she’d been on that show almost a decade ago, after she’d recovered DNA from a thirty-thousand-year-old bear that had been found frozen in Yukon permafrost. Most of the books on the lab’s shelves belonged to the university, but she retrieved a half dozen volumes that were her own, including a recent edition of the
CRC Handbook
.

Mary looked around the lab, hands on hips. Somebody else could take over trying to sequence DNA from a passenger pigeon—that had been what she’d been working on before she’d left for Sudbury. And although Mary herself had bought most of the plants in the lab, she knew she could count on Daria to water them.

So: everything was set. She picked up the milk crate, which was quite heavy now, and headed for the door, and—

No. No, there was something else.

She
could
leave them here, she supposed. No one would throw them out in her absence, after all. Hell, there were specimens in there that belonged to old Daniel Colby, and he’d been dead for two years.

Mary set down her crate and crossed over to the refrigerator used to store biological specimens. She opened the door and let a blast of cold air wash over her.

There they were: two opaque specimen containers, both labeled “Vaughan 666.”

One contained her panties from that night, and the other—

The other contained the filth he’d left inside her.

But no. No, she wouldn’t take them with her. They’d be fine here, and, besides, she didn’t even want to touch them. She closed the refrigerator door and turned around.

Just then, Cornelius Ruskin stuck his head in the lab’s door. “Hey, Mary,” he said.

“Hi, Cornelius.”

“Just wanted to say we’re going to miss you around here, and—well, I wanted to thank you for the extra course work.”

“No problem,” said Mary. “I can’t think of anyone better qualified to do it.” She wasn’t just being polite; she knew it was true. Cornelius had been quite the wunderkind; his undergrad had been at U of T, but his Ph.D. was from Oxford, where he’d studied at the Ancient Biomolecules Centre.

Mary started toward the milk crate. “Let me get that,” said Cornelius. “You taking it out to your car?”

She nodded. Cornelius bent from his knees, just like you’re supposed to, and lifted the crate. They headed out into the corridor. Coming the other way was Jeremy Banyon, a grad student, but not one of Mary’s. “Hello, Professor Vaughan,” he said. “Hello, Doctor Ruskin.”

Mary saw Cornelius manage a tight little smile. Mary and the other full-time faculty were always called “Professor,” but Cornelius wasn’t entitled to that honorific. It was only in the halls of academe that being referred to as “Doctor” was the consolation prize, and she could see in his expression how much Cornelius coveted the P-word.

Mary and Cornelius went down the stairs and out into the sultry August heat. They made their way over to the parking lot by York Lanes, and he helped her put her things in the trunk of her Honda. She bade him farewell, got in, started the engine, and drove off to her new life.