So the person who had attacked her wasn’t just anyone; he’d been part of a subset of a subset of a subset: males, with blue eyes and white skin, who smoked.
If Mary could ever find him, she could prove his guilt. There weren’t many occasions when being a geneticist turned out to have practical applications in one’s own life, but it had come in handy that horrible night. Mary knew how to preserve samples of the man’s semen, which would contain DNA that could conclusively identify him.
Mary continued to walk across the campus. There were no crowds to fight through yet. But, actually, she’d probably feel safer then. After all, the rape had occurred during the summer holidays, when fewer people were around. Crowds meant safety—whether on the African savannah or here in Toronto.
And now, as she walked along, Mary realized a man was coming toward her. Her pulse accelerated, but she stayed her course; she couldn’t spend the rest of her life veering out of the way every time she was getting near a male. Still…
Still, it was a white man—that much was obvious.
His hair was blondish. She’d not seen her assailant’s hair; he’d worn a ski mask. But blue eyes often went with light hair.
Mary closed her eyes for a second, shutting out the bright sunlight, shutting out her world. Maybe she should have followed Ponter through the gateway to the Neanderthal universe. Certainly that thought had crossed her mind as she’d run across the Laurentian campus, searching for Ponter, rushing to get him down to the bottom of the Creighton Mine before the reopened portal to his reality slammed shut again. After all, at least there she’d have known for sure that her attacker was nowhere around.
The approaching man was now less than a dozen meters away. He was young—probably a summer student—and wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt.
And he was wearing sunglasses. It was a bright summer’s day; Mary herself was wearing her FosterGrants. There was no way to tell what color his eyes were, although they couldn’t be the golden of Ponter’s—she’d never seen any other human with eyes like that.
Mary tensed as the man came closer, and closer still.
Even if he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses, though, Mary wouldn’t have known what color his eyes were. As the man passed by her, she found herself averting her gaze, unable to look at him.
Damn, she thought. God damn.
Chapter Three
“So,” said Jurard Selgan, “despite your…your…”
Ponter shrugged. “My bullying,” he said. “We’re not supposed to be afraid of facing things head on here, are we?”
Selgan tipped his head, accepting Ponter’s assessment. “Very well, then. Despite your bullying, the High Gray Council did not immediately make a decision, did it?”
“No,” said Ponter. “No, and I suppose it was correct in taking at least a little time to think things through. Two were just about to become One, and so the Council adjourned, reserving its decision until after that was over…”
Two becoming One: so simple a phrase, and yet so fraught with meaning and complexity for Ponter and his people.
Two becoming One: the monthly four-day holiday around which all life was structured.
Two becoming One: the period during which adult males, who normally lived at the city’s Rim, came into the Center to spend time with their women-mates and children.
It was more than just a break from work, more than simply a variation in routine. It was the fire that sustained culture; it was the gut ties that bound families.
A hover-bus settled out front of Ponter and Adikor’s house. The two men entered through the door at the back and found a pair of adjacent saddle-seats upon which to sit. The driver activated the fans, and the bus rose above the ground and started moving on to the next house, off in the distance.
Usually, Ponter gave no thought to something as mundane as a hover-bus, but today he couldn’t help pondering how elegant a solution it was compared to what they’d done about transportation in the Gliksin world. There, vehicles of all sizes rolled on wheels. Everywhere he’d gone on the Gliksin world (admittedly only a few places), he’d seen wide, flattened trails covered with artificial stone to make it easy for those wheels to roll.
And as if that weren’t bad enough, the Gliksins used a chemical reaction to propel their wheeled vehicles—a reaction that gave off a noxious smell. Apparently it wasn’t as irritating to the Gliksins as it had been to Ponter; not surprising, he supposed, given their minuscule noses.
What a wonderful quirk of nature that had been! Ponter knew that his kind had developed their large noses—much bigger than those of any other primate—during the last glacial epoch. According to Doctor Singh, the Gliksin who had looked after him at their hospital, Neanderthals had six times the nasal capacity of Gliksins. The original reason had been to humidify cold air before it was drawn into the sensitive tissues of the lungs. But when the great ice sheets had eventually retreated, the large noses had been retained because they’d provided the beneficial side effect of an excellent sense of smell.
If it hadn’t been for that, maybe Ponter’s kind would have used the same petrochemicals, resulting in the same level of atmospheric pollution. The irony did not escape Ponter: the kind of humans he’d hitherto only known as fossils were poisoning their skies with what they themselves called fossil fuels.
And worse than that: every adult Gliksin seemed to have his or her own personal vehicle. What an unspeakable waste of resources! Most of these cars spent the bulk of each day just sitting. Ponter’s own city of Saldak had some three thousand travel cubes for a population of twenty-five thousand—and Ponter often thought that was too many.
The hover-bus came to rest at the next house. Ponter and Adikor’s neighbors, Torba and Gaddak, as well as Gaddak’s twin sons, came on board. Males left their mothers and moved in with their fathers at the age of ten years. Adikor had only one child, an eight-year-old boy named Dab, who would come live with him and Ponter the year after next. Ponter had two children, but both were girls: Megameg Bek, a 148, also eight years old, and Jasmel Ket, a 147, now eighteen.
Ponter himself, as well as his man-mate Adikor, were members of generation 145, making them both thirty-eight years old. That had been another bizarre thing about the Gliksin world: instead of controlling their breeding cycles, so that children were born only every tenth year, they gave birth constantly, every year. Rather than nice, neat, discrete generations, their world had a smooth continuum of ages. Ponter hadn’t spent enough time there to figure out how they managed the economics of that. Without manufacturers shifting their focus from baby-wear to toddler clothes to young adult garb, in step with the growing of a generation, the Gliksins simultaneously had to produce clothes for people of any age. And they had this ridiculous concept of “fashion,” or so Lou Benoît had told him: perfectly good clothes were discarded for reasons of capricious esthetics.
The hover-bus took off again. Torba and Gaddak’s house had been the last stop on the Rim; Ponter settled back for the long drive through the countryside into the Center.
* * *
As usual, the women had put up decorations: great pastel streamers stretching from tree to tree, circular bands of color around birch and cedar trunks, banners waving from the roofs of buildings, golden frames surrounding the solar collectors, silver ones adorning the composting units.
Ponter used to harbor a suspicion that the women left the decorations up all the time, but Adikor had said there’d been no sign of them when he’d come into the Center during Last Five, looking for someone to defend him against Daklar Bolbay’s spurious charge.
The hover-bus settled to the ground. It wasn’t yet the time of falling leaves, although next month’s Two becoming One would be during the start of that, and the fans would then send brown and red and yellow and orange foliage whirling about. Ponter would be glad when the cold weather returned.
The computer scientist in Ponter couldn’t help noticing that Torba, Gaddak, and Gaddak’s twin boys were the first
to disembark: the hover-bus operated on a last-in/first-out system. Ponter and Adikor were the next to step out. Lurt, Adikor’s woman-mate, hurried over to him, accompanied by little Dab. Adikor swept his son up in his arms and lifted him high over his head. Dab laughed, and Adikor was smiling widely. He set Dab down and gathered Lurt into a hug. It hadn’t been a full month since he’d seen them—they’d both been on hand during Adikor’s dooslarm basadlarm, the preliminary hearing into whether Adikor had murdered Ponter, a charge raised by Daklar Bolbay over Ponter’s disappearance when he’d slipped into the other universe. Still, Adikor was clearly delighted to see his woman and his child.
Ponter’s woman-mate Klast was dead, but he’d expected his two daughters to come greet him. Granted, he’d seen them recently, too; indeed, Jasmel had been instrumental in recovering Ponter from the Gliksin world.
Adikor looked at Ponter apologetically. Ponter knew that Adikor loved him deeply—and he showed that love twenty-five days out of each month. But this was the time for him to be with Lurt and Dab, and, well, he wanted to savor every beat of it. Ponter nodded, letting Adikor go, and Adikor headed off, one arm around Lurt’s waist, the other holding little Dab’s left hand.
Other men were joining up with their women, and boys were going off with girls from the same generation. Yes, there’d certainly be much sex over the next four days, but there’d also be a lot of playing and fun and family outings and feasting.
Ponter looked around. The crowd was dissipating. It was an unpleasantly warm day, and he sighed—but not just because of that.
“I can call Jasmel, if you wish,” said Hak. Hak was Ponter’s Companion implant, embedded in the inside of his left forearm, just above the wrist. Like most Companions, it consisted of a high-contrast, matte-finish rectangular display screen about as long and wide as a finger, with six small control buds set beneath it, and a lens at one end. But unlike most Companions, which were pretty stupid, Hak was a sophisticated artificial intelligence, a product of Ponter’s colleague Kobast Gant.
Hak hadn’t spoken aloud, although she could; Ponter thought of it as a she, since Kobast had programmed the device with the voice of Ponter’s late woman-mate. On days like today, though, that seemed a terrible mistake: it reminded him of how much he missed Klast. He’d have to speak to Kobast about getting a different voice.
“No,” said Ponter, softly. “No, don’t call anyone. Jasmel has a young man, you know. He probably came in on an earlier hover-bus, and she’s off with him.”
“You’re the boss,” said Hak.
Ponter looked around. The buildings here in the Center were much like those out at the Rim. Most had main structures grown through arboriculture, tree trunks shaped around building forms that had subsequently been removed. Many had brick or wooden additions tacked on. All had solar-collecting arrays, either on their roofs or propped up on the ground adjacent to them. In some hostile climates, buildings had to be entirely manufactured, but Ponter always thought such structures were ugly. And yet the Gliksins seemed to make all their buildings that way, and to cram them together like herds of herbivorous animals.
Speaking of animals, there would be a mammoth hunt this afternoon, providing fresh meat for tomorrow’s feast. Perhaps Ponter would join the hunting party. It had been a long time since he’d taken spear in hand and brought down prey in the old-fashioned way. At least it would give him—him, and the other men who had no one to spend time with—something to do.
“Daddy!”
Ponter turned around. Jasmel was running toward him, accompanied by her boyfriend, Tryon. Ponter felt a grin splitting his features. “Healthy day, sweetheart,” he said, as they came up to him. “Healthy day, Tryon.”
Jasmel hugged her father. Tryon stood awkwardly at one side. When Jasmel released Ponter, Tryon said, “It’s good to see you, sir. I understand you’ve had quite an adventure.”
“That I have,” said Ponter. He supposed he possessed the same ambivalence toward this young man that any father of a young woman had. Yes, Jasmel had said nothing but good about Tryon—he listened to her when she spoke, he was kind during sex, he was studying to be a leather worker and so was going to make a valuable contribution to society. Still, Jasmel was his daughter, and he wanted nothing but the best for her.
“Sorry we were late,” said Jasmel.
“That’s all right,” replied Ponter. “Where is Megameg?”
“She’s decided she doesn’t really like being called that anymore,” said Jasmel. “She wants to be just Mega.”
Mega was her real name; Megameg was a diminutive form. Ponter felt a wave of sadness washing over him. His big girl was all grown up, and his little girl was growing up fast. “Ah,” he said. “Where’s Mega, then?”
“Playing with friends,” said Jasmel. “You’ll see her later.”
Ponter nodded. “And what have you two got in mind for this morning?”
“We thought we’d all play a game of ladatsa,” offered Tryon.
Ponter looked at the young man. He was handsome, Ponter supposed, with wide shoulders, a wonderfully prominent browridge, a sharply defined nose, and deep purple eyes. But he’d adopted some of the affectations of youth. Instead of letting his reddish blond hair part naturally down the center, he was forcing it all to his left side, presumably holding it in place with some sort of goop.
Ponter was about to say yes to the offer of ladatsa—it had been many ten months since he’d kicked a ball—but he thought back to himself at this age, twenty years ago, when he’d been courting Klast. The last thing he’d have wanted was Klast’s father hanging around.
“No,” he said. “You two run along. I’ll see you this evening for dinner.”
Jasmel looked at her father, and he could see that she knew it wasn’t what he really wanted. But Tryon was no fool; he immediately thanked Ponter, took Jasmel’s hand, and started her walking away.
Ponter watched them go. Jasmel would presumably give birth to her first the year after next, when generation 149 was scheduled to be born. Things would change then, Ponter thought. He’d at least have a grandchild to look after when Two became One.
The hover-bus had long since departed, going back to the Rim to fetch another load of men. Ponter turned and started heading into town. Perhaps he’d get a bite to eat, and—
His heart jumped. This was the last person he’d expected to see, but—
But there she stood, as if waiting for him.
Daklar Bolbay.
“Healthy day, Ponter,” she said.
He’d known Daklar for a long time, of course. She had been Klast’s woman-mate. Indeed, if anyone could understand what the loss of Klast had meant to Ponter, it was Daklar. But…
But she’d made things miserable for Adikor in Ponter’s absence. Accusing him of murder! Why, Adikor could no more have killed Ponter—or anyone, for that matter—than Ponter himself could have.
“Daklar,” said Ponter, forgoing the usual pleasantry.
Daklar nodded, understanding. “I can’t blame you for being displeased with me,” she said. “I know I hurt Adikor, and to hurt one’s mate is to hurt oneself.” She locked her eyes onto Ponter’s own. “I apologize, Ponter, fully and completely. I’d hoped to get here in time to say the same thing to Adikor, but I see he’s already gone.”
“You say you’re sorry,” said Ponter. “But what you did—”
“What I did was horrible,” interjected Daklar, looking down at her feet, encased in the fabric pouches at the ends of her black pant. “But I’m seeing a personality sculptor, and I’m taking medication. The treatment has only just begun, but I already feel less…angry.”
Ponter had some inkling of what Daklar had gone through. Not only had she lost the woman they had shared, dear Klast, but before that she’d lost her man-mate, Pelbon, who’d been whisked away one morning by enforcers. Oh, he’d been returned, but not whole. He had been castrated, and their relationship had crumbled.
Ponter had been enormously sad w
hen Klast had died, but at least he’d had Adikor and Jasmel and Megameg to help him get through it. How much worse it must have been for Daklar, who had no man-mate and, because of what had been done to Pelbon, no children.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” said Ponter.
“I am,” confirmed Daklar, nodding again. “I know I’ve got a long way to go, but, yes, I am feeling better, and…”
Ponter waited for her to go on. Finally, he prodded her. “Yes?”
“Well,” she said, now avoiding his eyes, “it’s just that I’m by myself, and…” She paused again, but this time continued of her own volition. “And you’re by yourself, too. And, well, Two becoming One can be so very lonely when you have no one to spend the time with.” She briefly glanced at his face, but then looked away, perhaps afraid of what she might see there.
Ponter was startled. But…
But Daklar was intelligent, and that did appeal to Ponter. And her hair was showing wonderful streaks of gray mixed in with the brown. And—
But no. No. It was madness. After what she’d done to Adikor…
Ponter’s jaw twinged. It did that occasionally, but usually only on cold mornings. He brought up a hand to rub it through his beard.
His jaw had been broken, some 229 moons ago, by Adikor, during a stupid fight. Had Ponter not lifted his head in time, Adikor’s blow would have killed him.
But Ponter had lifted his head quickly enough, and, although almost half his mandible and seven teeth had needed to be replaced with synthetic duplicates, he had lived.
And he’d forgiven Adikor. Ponter had made no accusation; Adikor had been spared from the enforcers’ scalpel. Adikor had undergone treatment for anger management, and in all the months since, he’d never so much as threatened to hit Ponter or anyone else.
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