Hybrids np-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Of course, there were treatments: men lost testicles because of cancer all the time. Cornelius could go on testosterone supplements. No one—in his public life at least—would ever have to know that he was taking them.

  And his private life? He didn’t have one—not anymore, not since Melody had broken up with him two years ago. He’d been devastated, even suicidal for a few days. But she’d graduated from Osgoode Hall—York University’s lawschool—finished articling, and was sliding into a $180,000-a-year associate’s position at Cooper Jaeger. He could never have been the kind of power-husband she needed, and now…

  And now.

  Cornelius looked up at the ceiling, feeling numb all over.

  Mary hadn’t seen Colm O’Casey for many months, but he looked perhaps five years older than she remembered him. Of course, she usually thought of him as he’d been back when they were living together, when they’d been planning jointly for eventual retirement, already having set their hearts on a country house on B.C.’s Salt Spring Island…

  Colm rose as Mary approached, and he leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head, offering only her cheek.

  “Hello, Mary,” he said, sitting back down. There was something surreal about a steakhouse at lunchtime: the dark wood, the imitation Tiffany lamps, and the lack of windows all made it seem like night. Colm had already ordered wine—L’ambiance, their favorite. He poured some in the waiting glass for Mary.

  She made herself comfortable—as comfortable as she could—and sat in the chair across the table from Colm, a candle in a glass container flickering between them. Colm, like Mary, was a bit on the pudgy side. His hairline had continued its retreat, and his temples were gray. He had a small mouth and a small nose—even by Gliksin standards.

  “You’ve certainly been in the news a lot lately,” said Colm. Mary was on the defensive already, and opened her mouth to reply curtly but before she could, Colm raised a hand, palm out, and said, “I’m happy for you.”

  Mary tried to remain calm. This was going to be difficult enough without her getting emotional. “Thanks.”

  “So what’s it like?” Colm asked. “The Neanderthal world, I mean?”

  Mary lifted her shoulders a bit. “Like they say on TV. Cleaner than ours. Less crowded.”

  “I’d like to visit it someday,” said Colm. But then he frowned and added, “Although I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the chance. I can’t quite see them inviting anyone with my academic specialty there.”

  That much was probably true. Colm taught English at the University of Toronto; his research was on those plays putatively by Shakespeare for which authorship was disputed. “You never know,” said Mary. He’d spent six months of their marriage on sabbatical in China, and she’d never have expected the Chinese to care about Shakespeare.

  Colm was almost as distinguished in his field as Mary was in hers—nobody wrote about The Two Noble Kinsmen without citing him. But, despite their ivory-tower lives, real-world concerns had intruded early on. Both York and U of T compensated professors on a market-value basis: law professors were paid a lot more than history professors because they had many other job opportunities. Likewise, these days—especially these days—a geneticist was a hot commodity, whereas there were few employment prospects outside academe for English-literature experts. Indeed, one of Mary’s friends used this tag at the end of his e-mails:

  The graduate with a science degree asks, “Why does it work?” The graduate with an engineering degree asks, “How does it work?” The graduate with an accounting degree asks, “How much will it cost?” The graduate with an English degree asks, “Do you want fries with that?”

  That Mary had been the real breadwinner had been only one of the sources of friction in their marriage. Still, she shuddered to think how he’d react if she told him how much the Synergy Group was paying her.

  A female server came, and they ordered: steak frites for Colm; perch for Mary.

  “How are you liking New York?” asked Colm.

  For half a second, Mary thought he meant New York City, where Ponter had been shot in the shoulder back in September by a would-be assassin. But, no, of course he meant Rochester, New York—Mary’s supposed home now that she was working for the Synergy Group. “It’s nice,” she said. “My office is right on Lake Ontario, and I’ve got a great condo on one of the Finger Lakes.”

  “Good,” said Colm. “That’s good.” He took a sip of wine, and looked at her expectantly.

  For her part, Mary took a deep breath. She’d been the one who’d called this meeting, after all. “Colm…” she began.

  He set down his wineglass. They’d been married for seven years; he doubtless knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to say when she used that tone.

  “Colm,” Mary said again, “I think it’s time that we…that we wrapped up unfinished business.”

  Colm knit his brow. “Yes? I thought we’d settled all the accounts…”

  “I mean,” said Mary, “it’s time for us to make our…the separation permanent.”

  The server took that inopportune moment to arrive with salads: Caesar for Colm, mixed field greens with raspberry vinaigrette for Mary. Colm shooed the server away when she offered ground pepper, and he said, in a low volume, “You mean an annulment?”

  “I…I think I’d prefer a divorce,” Mary said, her voice soft.

  “Well,” said Colm. He looked away, at the fireplace on the far side of the dining room, the hearth stone cold. “Well, well.”

  “It just seems time, that’s all,” said Mary.

  “Does it?” said Colm. “Why now?”

  Mary frowned ruefully. If there was one thing that studying Shakespeare inculcated in you, it was that there were always undercurrents and hidden agendas; nothing ever just happened. But she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it.

  No—no, that wasn’t true. She’d rehearsed the wording over and over in her head on the way here. It was his reaction she was unsure of.

  “I’ve met somebody new,” Mary said. “We’re going to try to make a life together.”

  Colm lifted his glass, took another sip of wine, then picked up a small piece of bread from the basket the waitress had brought with the salads. A mock communion; it said all that needed to be said. But Colm underscored the message with words anyway: “Divorce means excommunication.”

  “I know,” replied Mary, her heart heavy. “But an annulment seems so hypocritical.”

  “I don’t want to leave the Church, Mary. I’ve lost enough stability in my life as it is.”

  Mary frowned at the dig; she was the one who had left him, after all. Still, maybe he was right. Maybe she owed him that much. “But I don’t want to claim that our marriage never existed.”

  That mollified Colm and for a moment Mary thought he was going to reach across the linen tablecloth and take her hand. “Is it anyone I know—this new guy of yours?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “Some American, I suppose,” Colm continued. “Swept you off your feet, did he?”

  “He’s not American,” said Mary, defensively. “He’s a Canadian citizen.” Then, surprised by her own cruelty, she added, “But, yes, he quite literally swept me off my feet.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Mary knew why Colm was asking: not because he expected to recognize it, but because a surname could reveal much, in his view. If Colm had a failing, it was that he was his father’s son, a plain-talking, thickheaded man who compartmentalized the world based on ethnic groups. Doubtless Colm was already mentally thumbing through his lexicon of responses. If Mary were to mention an Italian name, Colm would dismiss him as a gigolo. If it were a Jewish name, Colm would assume he must have lots of money, and would say something about how Mary never really was happy with a humble academic as a husband.

  “You don’t know him,” said Mary.

  “You already said that. But I’d like to know his name.”

  Mary closed her eyes. She’d hoped, naïvely, to
avoid this issue altogether, but of course it was bound to come out eventually. She took a forkful of salad, buying time, then, looking down at her plate, unable to meet Colm’s eyes, she said, “Ponter Boddit.”

  She heard his fork bang against his salad plate as he put it down sharply. “Oh, Christ, Mary. The Neanderthal? ”

  Mary found herself defending Ponter, a reflex she immediately wished that she’d been able to suppress. “He’s a good man, Colm. Gentle, intelligent, loving.”

  “So how does this work?” Colm asked, his tone not as mocking as his words. “Do you play Musical Names again? What’s it going to be this time, ‘Mary Boddit’? And are you going to live here, or are the two of you going to set up house in his world, and—”

  Suddenly Colm fell silent, and his eyebrows shot up. “No—no, you can’t do that, can you? I’ve read some of the newspaper articles. Males and females don’t live together on his world. Jesus, Mary, what sort of bizarre midlife crisis is this?”

  Responses warred in Mary’s head. She was only thirty-nine, for God’s sake—perhaps “midlife” mathematically, but certainly not emotionally. And it had been Colm, not her, who had first acquired a significant other after they’d stopped living together, although his relationship with Lynda had been over for more than a year. Mary settled on the refrain she’d used so often during their marriage. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re damn right I don’t understand,” said Colm, clearly fighting to keep his voice down so that the few other patrons wouldn’t hear. “This—this is sick. He’s not even human.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Mary, firmly.

  “I saw the piece on CTV about your great breakthrough,” said Colm. “Neanderthals don’t even have the same number of chromosomes we do.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Mary.

  “The hell it doesn’t. I may only be an English professor, but I know that means they’re a separate species from us. And I know that that means you and he couldn’t have children.”

  Children, thought Mary, her heart jumping. Sure, when she’d been younger, she’d wanted to be a mother. But by the time grad school was finished, and she and Colm finally had some money, the marriage had begun to look rocky. Mary had done some foolish things in her life, but she at least had known better than to have a child just to shore up a faltering relationship.

  And now the big four-oh was looming; Christ, she’d be menopausal before she knew it. And, besides, Ponter already had two kids of his own.

  Still…

  Still, until this moment, until Colm had spelled it out, Mary hadn’t even thought about having a child with Ponter. But what Colm said was right. Romeo and Juliet were simply a Montague and a Capulet; the barriers between them were nothing compared with those between a Boddit and a Vaughan, a Neanderthal and a Gliksin. Star-crossed, indeed! She and he were universe -crossed, timeline-crossed.

  “We haven’t talked about having children,” said Mary. “Ponter already has two daughters—in fact, year after next, he’ll be a grandfather.”

  Mary saw Colm narrow his gray eyes, perhaps wondering how anyone could possibly predict such a thing. “A marriage is supposed to produce children,” he said.

  Mary closed her eyes. It had been her insistence that they wait until she’d finished her Ph.D.—that had been the reason she’d gone on the Pill, and to hell with the Pope’s injunction. Colm had never really understood that she needed to wait, that her studies would have suffered if she’d had to be mother and grad student simultaneously. But she knew him well enough even that early in their marriage to understand that the bulk of the work raising a child would have fallen to her.

  “Neanderthals don’t have marriages like ours,” Mary said.

  But that didn’t appease Colm. “Of course you want to marry him. You wouldn’t need a divorce from me unless you were going to do that.” But then his tone softened, and for a moment Mary remembered why she’d been drawn to Colm in the first place. “You must love him very much,” he said, “to contemplate excommunication just to be with him.”

  “I do,” said Mary, and then, as if those two words had been an unfortunate echo of their own now-distant past, she rephrased the sentiment. “Yes, I love him very much.”

  The server came and deposited their entrées. Mary looked at her fish, quite possibly the last meal she would ever have with the man who had been her husband. And suddenly she found herself wanting to give some amount of happiness to Colm. She’d intended to hold firm on her desire for a divorce, but he’d been right—it would mean excommunication. “I’ll agree to an annulment,” said Mary, “if that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” said Colm. “Thank you.” After a moment, he sliced into his steak. “I suppose there’s no point in delaying matters. We might as well get the ball rolling.”

  “Thanks,” said Mary.

  “I have just one request.”

  Mary’s heart was pounding. “What?”

  “Tell him—tell Ponter—that it wasn’t all my fault, our marriage breaking up. Tell him I was—I am —a good guy.”

  Mary reached over and did what she’d thought Colm was going to do earlier: she touched his hand. “Gladly,” she said.

  Chapter Four

  “Let me begin by noting this isn’t about us versus them. It isn’t about who is better, Homo sapiens or Homo neanderthalensis. It isn’t about who is brighter, Gliksin or Barast. Rather, it’s about finding our own strengths and our own best natures, and doing those things of which we can be most proud…”

  As soon as her lunch with Colm was over, Mary picked up Ponter from her condo in Richmond Hill. He’d been contentedly watching a classic Star Trek rerun on Space: The Imagination Station. They were all new to Ponter, of course, but Mary recognized the episode at once, the histrionic classic “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield,” with guest stars Frank Gorshin and Lou Antonio chewing up the scenery with their faces made up to be precisely half black and half white.

  They got into Mary’s car, and headed out on the five-hour drive up to Reuben Montego’s place—a journey that would get them there just in time for dinner.

  As they motored along highway 400, Mary found herself pumping her horn and waving. Louise’s black Ford Explorer with the vanity plate D2O—the formula for heavy water—had just passed them. Louise waved through her rear window and sped on ahead.

  “I believe she is exceeding the limitation imposed on velocity,” said Ponter.

  Mary nodded. “But I bet she’s really good at talking her way out of tickets.”

  Hours passed; kilometers rolled by. Shania Twain and Martina McBride had been replaced first by Faith Hill and then by Susan Aglukark.

  “Perhaps I’m not the best spokesperson for Catholicism,” said Mary in response to a comment from Ponter. “Maybe I should introduce you to Father Caldicott.”

  “What makes him a better spokesperson than you?” asked Ponter, taking his attention off the road—racing along highways was still very much a novel experience for him—to look at Mary.

  “Well, he’s ordained.” Mary had developed a little hand signal—a slight lifting of her left hand—to forestall Hak, Ponter’s Companion, bleeping at words she knew he wasn’t familiar with. “He’s had holy orders conferred upon him; he’s been made a priest. That is, he’s clergy.”

  “I am sorry,” said Ponter. “I am still not getting it.”

  “There are two classes in a religion,” said Mary. “The clergy and the laity.”

  Ponter smiled. “It surely is a coincidence that both of those are words I cannot pronounce.”

  Mary smiled back at him; she’d gotten to quite like Ponter’s sense of the ironic. “Anyway,” she continued, “the clergy are those who are specially trained to perform religious functions. The laity are just regular people, like me.”

  “But you have told me religion is a system of beliefs, ethics, and moral codes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely all members have equal
access to those things.”

  Mary blinked. “Sure, but, well, see, much of the—the source material is open to interpretation.”

  “For instance?”

  Mary frowned. “For instance, whether Mary—the biblical one, Jesus’ mother—remained a virgin for her entire life. See, there are references in the Bible to Jesus’ brethren—‘brethren’ is an old-fashioned word for brothers.”

  Ponter nodded, although Mary suspected that if Hak had translated “brethren” at all, he’d already done it as “brothers,” so Ponter had probably heard her say something nonsensical like, “‘Brothers’ is an old-fashioned word for brothers.”

  “And this is an important question?”

  “No, I suppose not. But there are other issues, matters of moral consequence, that are.”

  They were passing Parry Sound now. “Like what?” asked Ponter.

  “Abortion, for instance.”

  “Abortion…the termination of a fetus?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are the moral issues?”

  “Well, is it right to do that? To kill an unborn child?”

  “Why would you want to?” asked Ponter.

  “Well, if the pregnancy was accidental…”

  “How can you accidentally get pregnant?”

  “You know…” But she trailed off. “No, I guess you don’t know. On your world, generations are born every ten years.”

  Ponter nodded.

  “And all your females have their menstrual cycles synchronized. So, when men and women come together for four days each month, it’s usually when the women can’t get pregnant.”

  Again a nod.

  “Well, it’s not like that here. Men and women live together all the time, and have sex throughout the month. Pregnancies happen that aren’t wanted.”

  “You told me during my first visit that your people had techniques for preventing pregnancy.”

  “We do. Barriers, creams, oral contraceptives.”

  Ponter was looking past Mary now, out at Georgian Bay. “Do they not work?”