Neanderthal Parallax 2 - Humans

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “Very well,” said Hak, switching back to the external speaker. “Scholar Vaughan is recovering from a traumatic experience. Her emotions and behavior of late may be atypical.”

  Adikor tipped his head. “What traumatic experience? I mean, I know that eating a meal Ponter has helped prepare can be pretty devastating, but…”

  “Mare was raped,” said Ponter. “Back in her own world. Just before I came there.”

  “Oh,” said Adikor, immediately sobering. “What did they do to the guy who raped her?”

  “Nothing. He got away.”

  “How could he possibly—”

  Ponter raised his left arm. “No Companions. No justice.”

  “Marrowless bone,” said Adikor. “What a world they must live in.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The next day, Mary walked down the corridor of the laboratory building, stepping aside to make room for one of the spindly robots that darted about the corners of Neanderthal society. She wondered for a moment about the economics of this world. They had AI, and they had robots. But they also had what amounted to cab drivers; clearly not all jobs that could be automated had been automated.

  Mary continued on, until she came to the room Lurt was working in. “Were you planning to take a break anytime soon?” asked Mary, knowing how much she herself hated to be interrupted when work was going well.

  Lurt glanced at the display on her Companion, presumably noting the time. “Sure,” she said.

  “Good,” said Mary. “Can we go for a walk? I need to talk.”

  Mary and Lurt stepped out into the daylight. Lurt adopted the posture Mary had seen frequently now amongst Neanderthals, slightly tipping her head forward so that her browridge provided maximal shading for her eyes. Mary held one hand above her own flat brow, trying to achieve the same effect. Although she had weightier matters on her mind, having forgotten her FosterGrants back on the other side was getting to be a nuisance. “Do your people have sunglasses?” asked Mary.

  “If they need them. We have them for our daughters, too.”

  Mary smiled. “No, no, no.” She pointed up. “Sunglasses. Glasses that are tinted to block out some of the sunlight.”

  “Ah,” said Lurt. “Yes, such things are available, although we call them”—she had spoken continuously, but there was a pause in the translation, as Mary’s Companion considered how to interpret what Lurt had said—“snow-glare shields.”

  Mary understood immediately. Browridges were all well and good for shielding against light from above, and although the broad face and wide nose probably helped shield the deep-set eyes from light reflected off the ground, there would still be times when tinted glasses would be useful.

  “Is it possible I could get a pair?”

  “You need two of them?” asked Lurt.

  “Um, no. We, ah, we refer to glasses in the plural—you know, because there are two lenses.”

  Lurt shook her head, but it was in a good-humored way. “You might as well refer to a pair of ‘pants,’ then,” she said. “After all, they have two legs.”

  Mary decided not to pursue that. “In any event, is it possible to get a ‘snow-glare shield’ for me?”

  “Certainly. There is a lens grinder just over there.”

  But Mary hesitated. “I don’t have any money—any way to pay for them. I mean, for it.”

  Lurt gestured at Mary’s forearm, and, after a moment Mary realized that she was indicating the strapped-on Companion. Mary presented her forearm to Lurt’s inspection. She pulled a couple of the tiny control buds on it, and watched as symbols danced across its display.

  “As I thought,” said Lurt. “This Companion is tied to Ponter’s account. You may acquire anything you wish, and he will be billed for it.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  “Come, the lens grinder’s shop is over here.”

  Lurt crossed a wide strip of tall grass, and Mary followed. She felt a certain guilt spending Ponter’s money, given what she wanted to talk to Lurt about, but she was getting a headache, and she didn’t want to have so sensitive a conversation within earshot of Lurt’s coworkers. No, more than that: Mary was becoming savvy in the ways of Neanderthals. She knew that when they were indoors or when the wind was still, a Neanderthal could tell much about what the person she was with was thinking or feeling simply by inhaling his or her pheromones. Mary felt disadvantaged, and naked, under such circumstances. But there was a good breeze today, and while she and Lurt walked, Lurt would have to take Mary’s words at face value.

  They entered the building Lurt had indicated. It was a large facility, made out of three shaped trees close enough together that their branches intertwined into a single canopy overhead.

  Mary was surprised by what she saw. She’d expected some alternate-world LensCrafters, devoted to eyewear, but so much of the eyewear business was driven by mercurial fashion in frames, and the Neanderthals, with their conserving natures, didn’t go in for fads. Also, with a smaller population, infinite specialization of work apparently wasn’t possible. This lens grinder made all manner of optics. Her shop was filled with what were clearly telescopes, microscopes, cameras, projectors, magnifying glasses, flashlights, and more. Mary tried to take it all in, sure that Lilly, Kevin, and Frank would barrage her with questions about it when she returned to the Synergy Group.

  An elderly Neanderthal woman emerged. Mary tested herself, trying to identify the female’s generation. She looked to be getting on to seventy, so that would make her—let’s see—a142. The woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of Mary, but she quickly recovered. “Healthy day,” she said.

  “Healthy day,” responded Lurt. “This is my friend Mare.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the 142. “From the other universe! My favorite Exhibitionist has been catching glimpses of you ever since you arrived.”

  Mary shuddered.

  “Mare needs a snow-glare shield,” said Lurt.

  The woman nodded and disappeared into the back of her shop for a moment. When she returned, she was holding a pair of dark lenses—dark blue, they seemed to be, not the green or amber Mary was used to—attached to a wide band that looked liked the elastic out of a pair of Fruit of the Looms. “Try these on,” she said.

  Mary took the offered lenses, but wasn’t sure exactly how to wear them. Lurt laughed. “Like this,” she said, taking the contraption from Mary and stretching the elastic until she was able to get it easily over Mary’s head. “Normally, the band would fit in here,” said Lurt, running her finger along the furrow between her own prominent browridge and forehead. “That would keep them from slipping down.”

  And, indeed, the band did seem to want to slip down. The lens maker clearly realized this. “Let me get you one for a child,” she said, disappearing into the back.

  Mary tried not to be embarrassed. Gliksins had tall heads; Neanderthals had long ones. The woman returned with another pair, one with a less generous elastic band. These seemed to fit snugly.

  “You can flip the lenses up or down, as needed,” said the woman, demonstrating for Mary.

  “Thank you. Umm, how do I…?”

  “Pay for it?” provided Lurt, smiling. “Just walk out of the shop; your account will be billed.”

  That was one way to deal with shoplifters, thought Mary. “Thank you,” she said, and she and Lurt headed outdoors again. With the lenses down, Mary found it much more comfortable, although the blue cast to everything made her feel even colder than she already did. As she and Lurt walked along, Mary broached the topic she wanted to talk about.

  “I don’t know what the protocols are here,” said Mary. “I’m not a politician or a diplomat or anything like that. And I certainly don’t want to offend you or put you in an awkward spot, but…”

  They were walking down another wide strip of grass, this one decorated at intervals with carved life-size statues of presumably great Neanderthals, all female. “Yes?” prodded Lurt.

  “Well, I’m wondering about
Ponter’s relationship with Daklar Bolbay.”

  “Daklar was woman-mate to Ponter’s woman-mate. Our technical term for that interaction is tulagark. Ponter is Daklar’s tulagarkap, and Daklar is Ponter’s tulagarlob.”

  “Is that normally a…a close relationship?”

  “It can be, but it does not have to be. Ponter is my own tulagarkap , after all—the same-sex mate of my opposite-sex mate, Adikor. Ponter and I do happen to be quite close. But it just as often is a merely cordial relationship, and occasionally one of some hostility.”

  “Ponter and Daklar seem to be…close.”

  Lurt made a cold laugh. “Daklar brought charges against my Adikor in Ponter’s absence. There can be no affection between Ponter and Daklar now.”

  “So I would have thought,” said Mary. “But there is.”

  “You are misreading the signs.”

  “Daklar herself told me.”

  Lurt stopped walking, perhaps startled, perhaps to try to catch a whiff of Mary’s pheromones. “Oh,” she said at last.

  “Indeed. And, well…”

  “Yes?”

  Mary paused, and then motioned for them to begin walking again. The sun moved behind a cloud. “You have not seen Adikor since Two last became One, is that right?”

  Lurt nodded.

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Briefly. On a matter concerning Dab.”

  “But not about…about Ponter and…and me?”

  “No,” said Lurt.

  “Are you…are you obliged to share everything with Adikor? I don’t mean possessions; I mean knowledge. Gossip.”

  “No, of course not. We have a saying: ‘What happens when Two are separate is best kept separate.’”

  Mary smiled. “All right, then. I really don’t want this to get back to Ponter, but…well, I, um, I like him.”

  “He has an agreeable disposition,” said Lurt.

  Mary suppressed a grin. Ponter himself had told her he wasn’t good-looking by the standards of his own people, not that Mary cared or could even tell. But Lurt’s words reminded her of what was usually said about homely people in her own world.

  “I mean,” said Mary, “I like him a lot.” God, she felt fourteen years old again.

  “Yes?” said Lurt.

  “But he likes Daklar. They spent part—maybe all—of the last Two becoming One together.”

  “Really?” said Lurt. “Astonishing.” She stepped aside, making room for a couple of younger women, holding hands, to pass by them. “Of course, the last Two becoming One occurred prior to reestablishing contact with your world. Did you and Ponter have sex when he was there the first time?”

  Mary was flustered. “No.”

  “And have you had sex since? Two have not been One since, but I understand Ponter spent considerable time in your world over the last couple of ten days.”

  Mary knew from Ponter that discussions about sexual matters weren’t taboo in his world. Still, she felt her cheeks warming. “Yes.”

  “How was it?” asked Lurt.

  Mary thought for a second, and then, having no idea how the translator might render the word, but not having a better one at hand, she said simply, “Hot.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I—I don’t know. I think so.”

  “He has no woman-mate; I am sure you know that.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes.”

  “I do not know how long this portal between our two worlds will stay open,” said Lurt. “It might be permanent; it might close tomorrow—even with so many of our greatest on the other side, the portal itself might be unstable. But even if it were permanent, do you propose somehow to make a life with Ponter?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if that is even a possibility.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Me?” said Mary. “No.”

  “And you have no man-mate?”

  Mary took a deep breath, and examined a stack of three travel cubes they were passing. “Welllll,” she said, “it’s complex. I was married—bonded—to a man named Colm O’Casey. My religion”—a bleep —“my belief system does not allow an easy dissolution of such bonds. Colm and I haven’t lived together for years, but technically we are still bonded.”

  “‘Lived together?’” repeated Lurt, astonished.

  “In my world,” said Mary, “a man lives with his woman-mate.”

  “What about his man-mate?”

  “He doesn’t have one. There are only two people in the relationship.”

  “Incredible,” said Lurt. “I love Adikor dearly, but I certainly would not want to live with him.”

  “It’s the way of my people,” said Mary.

  “But not of mine,” said Lurt. “If you were to pursue this relationship with Ponter, where would the two of you live? His world, or yours? He has children here, you know, and a man-mate, and work he enjoys.”

  “I know,” said Mary, her heart aching. “I know.”

  “Have you talked to Ponter about any of this?”

  “I was going to, but…but then I found out about Daklar.”

  “It would be very difficult to make it work,” said Lurt. “Surely you must understand that.”

  Mary exhaled noisily. “I do.” She paused. “But Ponter isn’t like the other men I know.” A silly comparison occurred to Mary: Jane Porter and Tarzan of the Apes. Jane had fallen head over heels for Tarzan, who truly had been unlike any man she’d ever met. And Tarzan, feral, raised by simians after the death of his parents, Lord and Lady Greystoke, was unique, truly one of a kind. But Ponter had said there were a hundred and eighty-five million people in his world, and perhaps all those men were like Ponter, and so unlike the rough, rude, mean, petty men of Mary’s world.

  But after a moment, Lurt nodded. “Yes, Ponter is not like other men that I know, either. He is amazingly intelligent, and truly kind. And…”

  “Yes?” said Mary, eagerly.

  But it was a while before Lurt went on. “There was an event, in Ponter’s past. He was…injured…”

  Mary touched Lurt’s massive forearm gently. “I know about what happened with Ponter and Adikor; I know about Ponter’s jaw.”

  Mary saw Lurt’s continuous eyebrow roll up her browridge before Mary turned her attention back to the path in front of them. “Ponter told you this?” asked Lurt.

  “About the injury, yes—I’d seen it in his X rays. Not who did it. I learned that from Daklar.”

  Lurt spoke a word that wasn’t translated, then: “Well, you know that Ponter forgave Adikor, totally and completely. It is something few people could have done.” She paused again. “And, I suppose, given his admirable history in such matters, it is little surprise that he has apparently forgiven Daklar, too.”

  “So,” said Mary, “what should I do?”

  “I have been given to understand that your people believe in some sort of existence after this one,” said Lurt.

  Mary started at the apparent non sequitur. “Um, yes.”

  “We do not, as I am sure Ponter must have told you. Perhaps if we believed there was more to life than just this existence, we might have a different philosophy, but let me tell you what tends to be our guiding principle.”

  “Please,” said Mary.

  “We live our lives so as to minimize deathbed regrets. You are a 145, no?”

  “I’m thirty-nine…years old, that is.”

  “Yes. Well, then you are perhaps halfway through your life. Ask yourself if in…in another thirty-nine years, to phrase it as you would, when your life is ending, will you regret not having tried to make a relationship with Ponter work?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Listen carefully to my question, friend Mare. I am not asking you if you would regret not pursuing this relationship if it were to succeed. I am asking you if you would regret not pursuing it even if it fails.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes, although they were comfortable behind the blue lenses. “I’m not sure what
you mean.”

  “My contribution is chemistry,” said Lurt. “Now. But it was not my first choice. I wanted to write stories, to create fiction.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But I failed at it. There was no audience for my tales, no positive response to my work. And so I had to make a different contribution; I had an aptitude for mathematics and science, and so I became a chemist. But I do not regret having tried and failed at writing fiction. Of course, I would have preferred to succeed, but on my deathbed I knew I would be more sad if I had never tried, had never tested to see if I might succeed at it, than I would be had I tried and failed. So I did try—and I did fail. But I am happy for the knowledge that I made the attempt.” Lurt paused. “Obviously, you will be happiest if your relationship with Ponter works out. But will you be happier on your deathbed, friend Mare, to know that you tried and failed to have a long-term relationship with Ponter than that you never tried at all?”

  Mary considered this. They walked on in silence for several minutes. Finally, Mary said, “I need to try,” she said. “I would hate myself if I didn’t at least try.”

  “Then,” said Lurt, “your path is clear.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  It was still one more day until Two became One, but Ponter and Mary had rendezvoused at the Alibi Archive Pavilion. Ponter had led her into the south wing, and they were now standing in front of a wall full of little compartments, each containing a reconstituted granite cube about the size of a volleyball. Mary had learned to read Neanderthal numerals. The particular cube Ponter was holding his Companion up to was number 16,321. It was identified in no other way, but, like all the other cubes, it had a blue light glowing in the center of one side.

  Mary shook her head in wonder. “Your whole life is recorded in there?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Ponter.

  “Everything?”

  “Well, everything except my work down in the quantum-computing facility—the signals from my Companion couldn’t penetrate the thousand armspans of rock overhead. Oh, and my entire first trip to your world is missing, too.”

  “But not the second trip?”

  “No, that was uploaded starting as soon as the alibi archives reacquired Hak’s signal—when we emerged from the mine. An entire record of that trip is stored here.”