by neetha Napew
The belief in God has often been advanced as not only the greatest, but the most complete of all the distinctions between man and the lower animals.
CHARLESDARWIN - The Descent of Man
And let me tell you, God is not so infinite as the Catholics assert. He is about six hundred meters in diameter, and even then is weak towards the edges.
KARELCAPEK - The Absolute at Large
Mankind was still divided into two species: The few who had “speculation” in their souls, and the many who had none, with a belt of hybrids in the middle.
JOHNGALSWORTHY - To Let
Chapter One
“My fellow Americans-and all other human beings on this version of Earth-it gives me great pleasure to address you this evening, my first major speech as your new president. I wish to talk about the future of our kind of hominid, of the species known as Homo sapiens:people of wisdom...”
“Mare,” said Ponter Boddit, “it is my honor to introduce you to Lonwis Trob.”
Mary was used to thinking of Neanderthals as robust-“Squat Schwarzeneggers” was the phrase the Toronto Star had coined, referring to their short stature and massive musculature. So it was quite a shock to behold Lonwis Trob, especially since he was now standing next to Ponter Boddit.
Ponter was a member of what the Neanderthals called “generation 145,” meaning he was thirty-eight years old. He stood about five-eight, making him on the tall side for a male of his kind, and he had muscles most bodybuilders would envy.
But Lonwis Trob was one of the very few surviving members of generation 138, and that made him a staggering one hundred and eight years old. He was scrawny, although still broad-shouldered. All Neanderthals had light skin-they were a northern-adapted people-but Lonwis’s was virtually transparent, as was what little body hair he had. And although his head showed all the standard Neanderthal traits-low forehead; doubly arched browridge; massive nose; square, chinless jaw-it was completely devoid of hair. Ponter, by comparison, had lots of blond hair (parted in the center, like most Neanderthals) and a full blond beard.
Still, the eyes were the most arresting features of the two Neanderthals now facing Mary Vaughan. Ponter’s irises were golden; Mary had found she could stare into them endlessly. And Lonwis’s irises weresegmented , mechanical: his eyeballs were polished spheres of blue metal, with a blue-green glow emanating from behind the central lenses.
“Healthy day, Scholar Trob,” said Mary. She didn’t take his hand; that wasn’t a Neanderthal custom. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“No doubt it is,” said Lonwis. Of course, he was speaking in the Neanderthal tongue-there was only one, so the language had no name-but his Companion implant was translating what he said, pumping synthesized English words out of its external speaker.
And what a Companion it was! Mary knew that Lonwis Trob had invented this technology when he was a young man, back in the year Mary’s people had known as 1923. In honor of all that the Companions had done for the Neanderthals, Lonwis had been presented with one that had a solid-gold faceplate. It was installed on the inside of his left forearm; there were few Neanderthal southpaws. In contrast, Ponter’s Companion, named Hak, had a plain steel faceplate; it looked positively chintzy in comparison.
“Mare is a geneticist,” said Ponter. “She is the one who proved during my first visit to this version of Earth that I was genetically what they call a Neanderthal.” He reached over and took Mary’s small hand in his own, massive, shortfingered one. “More than that, though, she is the woman I love. We intend to bond shortly.”
Lonwis’s mechanical eyes fell on Mary, their expression impossible to read. Mary found herself turning to look out the window of her office, here on the second floor of the old mansion that housed Synergy Group headquarters in Rochester, New York. The gray bulk of Lake Ontario spread to the horizon. “Well,” said Lonwis, or at least that was how his gold Companion translated the sharp syllable he uttered. But then his tone lightened and his gaze shifted to Ponter. “And I thought I was doing a lot for cross-cultural contact.”
Lonwis was one of ten highly distinguished Neanderthals-great scientists, gifted artists-who had marched through the portal from their world to this one, preventing the Neanderthal government from severing the link between the two realities.
“I want to thank you for that,” said Mary. “We all do-all of us here at Synergy. To come to an alien world-“
“Was the last thing I thought I would be doing at my age,” said Lonwis. “But those short-headed fools on the High Gray Council!” He shook his ancient head in disgust.
“Scholar Trob is going to work with Lou,” said Ponter, “on seeing if a quantum computer, like the one Adikor and I built, can be made using equipment that exists-how do you phrase it?-‘off the shelf’ here.”
“Lou” was Dr. Louise Benoît, by training a particle physicist; Neanderthals couldn’t pronounce the longee phoneme, although their Companions supplied it as necessary when translating Neanderthal words into English.
Louise had saved Ponter’s life when he’d first arrived here, months ago, accidentally transferred from his own subterranean quantum-computing chamber into the corresponding location on this version of Earth-which happened to be smack-dab in the middle of the heavy-water containment sphere at the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory, where Louise had then been working.
Because she’d been quarantined with Ponter and Mary, as well as physician Reuben Montego, when Ponter had fallen sick during his initial visit, Louise had had a chance to learn all about Neanderthal quantum computing from Ponter, making her the natural choice to head the replication effort here. And that effort was a high priority, since sufficiently large quantum computers were the key to bridging between universes.
“And when will I get to meet Scholar Benoît?” asked Lonwis.
“Right now,” said an accented female voice. Mary turned. Louise Benoît-beautiful, brunette, twenty-eight, all legs and white teeth and perfect curves-was standing in the doorway. “Sorry to be late. Traffic was murder.”
Lonwis tipped his ancient head, obviously listening to his Companion’s translation of those last three words, but, just as obviously, completely baffled by them.
Louise came into the room, and she did extend her pale hand. “Hello, Scholar Trob!” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ponter leaned close to Lonwis and whispered something to him. Lonwis’s brow undulated-it was a weird sight when a Neanderthal who still had eyebrow hair did it; it was downright surreal, Mary thought, when this centenarian did it. But he reached out and took Louise’s hand, grasping it as though he were picking up a distasteful object.
Louise smiled that radiant smile of hers, although it seemed to have no effect on Lonwis. “This is a real honor,” she said. She looked at Mary. “I haven’t been this excited since I met Hawking!” Stephen Hawking had taken a tour of the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory-quite the logistics exercise, given that the detector chamber was located two kilometers underground, and 1.2 kilometers horizontally along a mining drift from the nearest elevator.
“My time is extremely valuable,” said Lonwis. “Can we get to work?”
“Of course,” said Louise, still smiling. “Our lab is down the hall.”
Louise started walking, and Lonwis followed. Ponter moved close to Mary and gave her face an affectionate lick, but Lonwis spoke up without looking back. “Come along, Boddit.”
Ponter smiled ruefully at Mary, gave a what-can-you-do shrug of his massive shoulders, and followed Louise and the great inventor, closing the heavy, dark wooden door behind himself.
Mary walked over to her desk and started sorting the mess of papers on it. She used to be-what? Nervous? Jealous? She wasn’t sure, but certainly it had originally made her uneasy w
hen Ponter spent time with Louise Benoît. After all, as Mary had discovered, the maleHomo sapiens here at Synergy often referred to Louise behind her back as “LL.” Mary had finally asked Frank, one of the imaging guys, what that meant. He’d been embarrassed, but had ultimately revealed it stood for “Luscious Louise.” And Mary had to admit Louise was just that.
But it no longer bothered Mary when Ponter was with Louise. After all, it was Mary, not the French-Canadian, that the Neanderthal loved, and big boobs and full lips didn’t seem to be high on the Barast list of favored traits.
A moment later there was a knock on her door. Mary looked up. “Come in,” she called.
The door swung open, revealing Jock Krieger, tall, thin, with a gray pompadour that always made Mary think of Ronald Reagan. She wasn’t alone in that; Jock’s secret nickname among the same people who called Louise “LL” was “the Gipper.” Mary supposed they had a name for her, too, but she’d yet to overhear it.
“Hi, Mary,” said Jock in his deep, rough voice. “Do you have a moment?”
Mary blew out air. “I’ve gotlots of them,” she said.
Jock nodded. “That’s what I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” He came in and helped himself to a chair. “You’ve finished the work I hired you to do here: find an infallible method for distinguishing a Neanderthal from one of us.” Indeed she had-and it had turned out to be pig-simple:Homo sapiens had twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, whileHomo neanderthalensis had twenty-four.
Mary felt her pulse accelerating. She’d known this dream job, with its hefty consulting fee, was too good to last. “A victim of my own genius,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. “But, you know, I can’t go back to York University-not this academic year. A couple of sessional instructors”-one of whom is an absolute bloody monster-“have taken over my course work.”
Jock raised a hand. “Oh, I don’t want you to go back to York. But Ido want you to leave here. Ponter’s heading home soon, isn’t he?”
Mary nodded. “He only came over to attend some meetings at the UN, and, of course, to bring Lonwis up here to Rochester.”
“Well, why don’t you accompany him when he goes back? The Neanderthals are being very generous about sharing what they know about genetics and biotechnology, but there’s always more to learn. I’d like you to make an extended trip to the Neanderthal world-maybe a month-and learn as much as you can about their biotechnology.”
Mary felt her heart pounding with excitement. “I’dlove to do that.”
“Good. I’m not sure what you’ll do about living arrangements over there, but...”
“I’ve been staying with Ponter’s man-mate’s woman-mate.”
“Ponter’s man-mate’s woman-mate...” repeated Jock.
“That’s right. Ponter is bonded to a man named Adikor-you know, the guy who co-created their quantum computer with him. Adikor, meanwhile, is simultaneously bonded to a woman, a chemist named Lurt. And when Two aren’t One-when the male and female Neanderthals are living separate lives-it’s Lurt that I stay with.”
“Ah,” said Jock, shaking his head. “And I thought theY&R had confusing family relationships.”
“Oh, those areeasy ,” said Mary with a smile. “Jack Abbott used to be married to Nikki, who was born Nikki Reed. That was after she was married to Victor Newman-for the first two times, that is, but before the third time. But now Jack is married to...”
Jock held up a hand. “Okay, okay!”
“Anyway, like I said, Ponter’s man-mate’s woman-mate is a chemist named Lurt-and the Neanderthals consider genetics to be a branch of chemistry, which, of course, it really is, if you think about it. So she’ll be able to introduce me to all the right people.”
“Excellent. If you’re willing to head over to the other side, we could certainly use this information.”
“Willing?” said Mary, trying to contain her excitement. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Last time I checked,” said Jock with a small smile.
Chapter Two
“And, as you will see, it is onlyourfuture-the future of Homo sapiens-that I will be addressing tonight. And not just because I can only speak as the American president. No, there is more to it than that. For, in this matter, our future and that of the Neanderthals arenotintertwined...”
Cornelius Ruskin was afraid the vivid nightmares would never end: that goddamned caveman coming at him, throwing him down, mutilating him. He awoke each morning soaked with sweat.
Cornelius had spent most of the day after the horrid discovery painfully lying in bed, hugging himself. The phone had rung on several occasions, at least one of which was doubtless somebody calling from York University to find out where the hell he was. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak to anyone then.
Late that night, he’d called the genetics department and left a message on Qaiser Remtulla’s voice mail. He’d always hated that woman, and hated her even more now thatthis had been done to him. But he managed to keep his tone calm, saying that he was ill and wouldn’t be back in for several days.
Cornelius watched carefully for blood in his urine. Every morning, he felt around the wound for seepage, and took his own temperature repeatedly, to assure himself that he didn’t have a fever-which he didn’t, despite his frequent hot flashes.
He still had trouble believing it, was still overwhelmed by the very idea. There was pain, but it diminished day by day, and codeine tablets helped-thank God they were available over the counter here in Canada; he always had some 222s on hand, and had initially been taking five at a time, but now had himself down to the normal dose of two.
Beyond taking painkillers, though, Cornelius had no idea what to do. He certainly couldn’t go see his doctor-or any doctor, for that matter. There was no way his injury could be kept secret if he did that; someone would be bound to talk. And Ponter Boddit had been right: Cornelius couldn’t risk that.
Finally, when he at last managed to summon enough energy, Cornelius went to his computer. It was an old no-name 90 MHz Pentium that he’d had since his grad-student days. The machine was adequate for word processing and e-mail, but he usually saved web surfing for when he was at work: York had high-speed lines, while all he could afford for home was a dial-up account with a local ISP. But he needed answers now, and so he suffered through the maddeningly slow page-loading.
It took twenty minutes, but he finally found what he was looking for. Ponter had returned to this Earth wearing a medical belt that included among its tools a cauterizing laser scalpel. That device had been used to save the Neanderthal’s life when he’d been shot outside the United Nations. Surely that was how he had-
Cornelius felt all his muscles contracting as he thought yet again of what had been done to him.
His scrotum had been slit open, presumably by the laser, and-
Cornelius closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to keep stomach acid from climbing his esophagus again.
Somehow-possibly even with his bare hands-Ponter had then wrenched Cornelius’s testicles from his body. And then the laser must have been used again, searing his flesh shut.
Cornelius had frantically searched his entire apartment for his balls, in hopes that they could be reimplanted. But after a couple of hours, tears of anger and frustration streaming down his face, he’d had to face reality. Ponter had either flushed them down the toilet, or had disappeared into the night with them. Either way, they were gone for good.
Cornelius was furious. What he’d done had been so wonderfully appropriate: those women-Mary Vaughan and Qaiser Remtulla-had stood in his way. They’d gotten their positions, and their tenure, simply because they were female.He was the one with a Ph.D. from Oxford, for God’s sake, but he’d been passed over for promotion as York “corrected historical gender imbalances” among its various faculties. He’d been shafted by that, so he’d shown them-the department head, that Paki bitch; and Vaughan, who had the jobhe should have had-what it was really like to get the shaft.
Damn it, thought Cornelius, feeling once more between his legs. His scrotum was badly swollen-but empty.
God damn it.
Jock Krieger went back to his office, which was on the ground floor of the Synergy Group mansion. His large window faced south toward the marina, instead of north toward Lake Ontario; the mansion was on an east-west spit of land in the Rochester community of Seabreeze.
Jock’s Ph.D. was in game theory; he’d studied under John Nash at Princeton, and had spent three decades at the RAND Corporation. RAND had been the perfect place for Jock. Funded by the Air Force, it had been the principal U.S.-government think tank in the Cold War, carrying out studies of nuclear conflict. To this day, when Jock heard the initialsM.D., he thought of amegadeath -one million civilian casualties-rather than a medical doctor.
The Pentagon had been furious about the way the initial encounter with Neanderthal Prime-the first Neanderthal to slip intothis reality fromthat one-had gone. The story of a modern caveman appearing in a nickel mine in Northern Ontario had seemed pure tabloid stuff, akin to alien encounters, Bigfoot sightings, and so on. By the time the U.S. government-or the Canadian one, for that matter-was taking things seriously, Neanderthal Prime was out and about among the general public, making it impossible to contain and control the situation.
And so money had suddenly appeared-some from the INS, but most from the DoD-to create the Synergy Group. That had been some politician’s name for it; Jock would have called it “Barast Encounter-Repetition Emergency Task-force,” or BERET. But the name-and that silly two-worlds-uniting logo-had been set before he was tapped to lead the organization.
Still, it had been no accident that a game theorist had been selected. It was clear that if contact ever did reopen, the Neanderthals and the humans-Jock still reserved that word, at least privately, forreal people-would have different interests, and figuring out the most advantageous outcome that could be reasonably expected in such situations was what game theory was all about.
