Humans

by neetha Napew

  Tukana entered the vast living room. The owner was old enough that the tree from which his home was made had reached a prodigious diameter, and he had hollowed out more and more of its interior as the months went by.

  And how many months it’d been! A member of generation 138 would have seen over thirteen hundred moons by now-a staggering 108 years of life.

  “Healthy day,” said Tukana, taking a seat.

  “At this point,” said the surprisingly strong, deep voice, “I will take any day I can get, healthy or otherwise.”

  Tukana wasn’t sure if the comment was meant humorously or ruefully, and so she just smiled and nodded. And then, after a moment, she said, “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you, sir.”

  “Try,” said the old man.

  Tukana was flustered. “Well, it’s just that we owe you so much, and-“

  But the man held up his hand. “I’m kidding, young lady.” At this Tukana Prat did smile, for it had been ages since anyone had referred to her as “young lady.” “In fact, you would honor me most if youspared me the honors. Believe me, I’ve heard them all before. In fact, in deference to how little time I have left, I would appreciate it if you wasted none of it. Please immediately tell me what you want.”

  Tukana found herself smiling again. As a diplomat, she’d met many important world leaders, but she’d never thought she would ever come face to face with the greatest inventor of them all, the renowned Lonwis Trob. Still, it was unnerving to look into his mechanical eyes, and so she found her gaze dropping to his left forearm, to the Companion implanted there. Of course, it wasn’t the original Companion that Lonwis had invented all those many months ago. No, this was the latest model-and all its metal parts, Tukana was astonished to see, where made of gold.

  “I don’t know how much of this stuff about the parallel Earth you’ve been following, but-“

  “Every bit of it,” said Lonwis. “It’s fascinating.”

  “Well then, you must know that I’m the ambassador selected by the High Gray Council-“

  “Squabbling brats!” said Lonwis. “Fools, every one of them.”

  “Well, I can understand-“

  “You know,” said Lonwis, “I hear some of them dye their hair gray, just to make themselves look smart.”

  Lonwis seemed quite content to waste his own time, Tukana noted, but she supposed he’d earned that privilege. “In any event,” she said, “they want to close the portal between our world and the Gliksin one.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re afraid of the Gliksins.”

  “You’ve met them; they haven’t. I’d rather hear your opinion.”

  “Well, you must know that one of them tried to kill Envoy Boddit, and discharged a weapon at me, as well.”

  “Yes, so I heard. But you both survived.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, my friend Goosa-“

  Tukana couldn’t help interrupting. “Goosa?” she repeated. GoosaKusk ?”

  Lonwis nodded.

  “Wow,” said Tukana, softly.

  “Anyway, I’m sure Goosa could figure out a way to protect against those projectile weapons the Gliksins use. The projectiles are propelled by a chemical explosion, as I understand it-which means although they’re going fast, they’re nowhere near as fast as light. So there’d be plenty of time for a laser to target and vaporize them. After all, my Companions are already scanning out to a radius of 2.5 armspans. Even if the projectile had reached the speed of sound, there would still be-“ He paused for the barest instant, and Tukana wondered if he was doing the math himself, or listening to his Companion; she rather suspected it was the former. “-0.005 beats for the laser to target and fire. You’d need a spherical emitter-no time to swivel a mechanical part-probably mounted in a hat. A trivial problem.” He looked at her. “So, was that what you needed? If so, I’ll contact Goosa on your behalf, and get on with my day.”

  “Um, no,” said Tukana. “I mean, yes, something like that would be fabulous. But that’s not the reason I came here.”

  “Well then, get to it, young lady. What exactly do you want?”

  Tukana swallowed. “It’s not just a favor from you; we’ll need a few of your esteemed friends, as well.”

  “To do what?”

  Tukana told him, and was pleased to see the ancient man’s face splitting into a grin.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Louise Benoît had been right: Jock Krieger could pull just about any string imaginable. The idea of one of his Synergy researchers getting to spend more than a week picking the brain of a Neanderthal appealed to him greatly, and Mary found every possible obstacle to a trip with Ponter falling away. And Jock had concurred with Ponter that the longer he stayed in this world, the longer they would have in order to convince the Neanderthals not to shut down the portal.

  Mary had decided on driving to Washington, D.C., with Ponter; it seemed simpler than hassling with airports and all the security. Plus, it would give her a chance to show Ponter some sights along the way.

  Mary rented a silver Ford Windstar van with tinted windows, making it hard for people passing them to see who her passenger was. They drove first to Philadelphia, an unmarked escort vehicle discreetly following them. Mary and Ponter saw Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, and had original Philly steak sandwiches at Pat’s; despite the cheese, Ponter ate three of them-well, Mary was going to say “in one sitting,” but it was standing room only at Pat’s, and they ate outside. Mary felt a bit strange explaining U.S. history to Ponter, but she rather suspected she was doing a better job of it than an American would have at explaining Canadian history.

  Ponter seemed almost completely recovered from his trauma-he seemed not just strong as an ox, but to have an ox’s constitution, too. That was appropriate, thought Mary, with a grin: they were, after all, visiting the home of the world’s strongest constitution...

  Ambassador Tukana Prat strode out onto the large semicircular stage at the front of the General Assembly hall. She was followed by one Neanderthal, then another, then another, and another still, more and more, until ten members of her race had lined up behind her. She stepped to the podium, and leaned into the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the United Nations,” she said. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to our new delegation to your Earth. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of my last visit, we all come to you in peace and in friendship, with open arms. Not just me-not just a government functionary-but ten of our very best and brightest. They did not have to come here; eachchose to make the trip. They are here because they believe in the ideal of free cultural exchange. We know you had assumed a-I believe your phrase is ‘tit-for-tat’-approach: you give us something, we give you something in return. But this opening of contact between two worlds should not be the province of economists or business people, and certainly not of warriors. No, such an interchange is the natural purview of idealists and dreamers, of those who have the most lofty of goals-those who havehumanitarian goals.” Tukana smiled out at the crowd. “This is already one of the longest speeches of my career, and so, without further ado, let me present our delegates.”

  She turned around and pointed to the first of the ten Neanderthals behind her, a man ancient beyond compare, with blue mechanical eyes glowing from beneath his browridge.

  “This,” said Tukana, “is Lonwis Trob, our greatest inventor. He developed the Companion-implant and alibi-recording technologies that make our world safe day and night for all its inhabitants. The-what you would call ‘patents,’ the intellectual property rights for these inventions-are his, and he comes to share them freely.”

  There was an astonished murmur through the crowd. Music began to play through the General Assembly’s speakers, haunting music, stirring music, Neanderthal music.

  “And this,” said Tukana, indicating the next in line-in Neanderthal fashion, she was working from right to left-“is Borl Kadas, our leading geneticist.” An elderly femal
e, a 138, stepped forward. Tukana continued. “I have heard talk here about the patenting of the human genome. Well, Scholar Kadas led our equivalent of your Human Genome Project, some five decades ago. She comes here prepared to freely share that research, and all the benefits we have gathered from it.”

  Tukana noted the dropped jaws on many of the delegates.

  “And this,” she said, indicating a portly male, “is Dor Farrer, poet laureate of Bontar province, widely regarded as our greatest living writer. He carries with him computerized archives of all the great plays and poetry, fiction and nonfiction, iterative narratives, and imaginative transcripts created in the past by our people, and will aid in their translation into your many languages.”

  Farrer waved enthusiastically at the delegates. The music was becoming richer, additional instruments joining in.

  “Next to him is Derba Jonk. She is our foremost specialist in the use of stem-cell technology to selectively clone body parts. We understand that you are just beginning research in that area; we have been doing it for four generations-four decades-and Scholar Jonk will be pleased to help your doctors leap ahead that far.”

  Many of the delegates made exclamations of astonishment.

  “And next to her,” said Tukana, “is Kobast Gant, our leading expert in artificial intelligence. Those of you who have spoken to Ponter Boddit or myself have already experienced Scholar Gant’s handiwork-our intelligent Companions were programmed by him. Again, he comes to freely share his knowledge with your world.”

  Even the amanuensis-high-warrior was murmuring appreciatively now. Cube-drums had joined the musical arrangement, pounding like hearts swelling with pride.

  “And next to Scholar Gant is Jalsk Lalplun, who holds the distinction of currently being the fastest human alive-in either universe I believe. We timed him yesterday: he can run one of your miles in three minutes, eleven seconds. Jalsk will share his approach to athletic training.”

  Jalsk’s smile stretched from ear to ear. The music was gaining in tempo, in cadence.

  “Next to Jalsk is Rabba Habrorn. She is one of our leading legal minds-the chief modern interpreter of our Code of Civilization. Many of you have wondered about our ability to have morals and ethics without recourse to a higher being. Adjudicator Habrorn will be pleased to answer all your questions in that area.” A trio of ice-horns had joined the orchestra.

  Habrorn tipped her head with great dignity. Despite Assembly-hall rules, several of the delegates had taken out cell phones and were making calls, presumably to their heads of state.

  “Standing beside her,” said Tukana, “is Drade Klimilk, head of our Philosophy Academy. Do not let his brown hair fool you; he is considered one of the wisest and most insightful thinkers in our world. Between him and Adjudicator Habrorn, you will learn all about our modes of thought.”

  Klimilk spoke, his voice deep and strong. “I am looking forward to it.” The symphony repeated an earlier movement, but with more volume, more gusto.

  “Next to Scholar Klimilk is Krik Donalt, one of our greatest musical composers. It is her composition-called ‘Two becoming One’-that you are hearing now.”

  Donalt bowed.

  “And last-but, as you would say, not least-this is Dapbur Kajak, who some of your people are already familiar with. She invented the tunable-laser process that makes possible the decontamination of travelers between our two worlds. Scholar Kajak will share everything she knows about disinfecting humans, and about quantum-cascade laser physics.”

  The music swelled in a crescendo, cube-drums, ice-horns, percussion geodes, and more, all in perfect harmony.

  Tukana continued. “All ten of them-scientists and engineers, philosophers and artists, athletes and scholars-come here to freely share with you everything they know about their individual fields of expertise.” She looked out at the General Assembly. “Let us make this work, friends. Let us establish a relationship between our worlds that will benefit everyone, a relationship founded on peace. The past ispast; our business now is the future. Let’s make it as positive for all of us as possible.”

  It was, Tukana Prat thought, one of the Austrian delegates who first began slapping his hands together, but he was almost immediately joined by dozens, then hundreds, of others, and soon all the delegates were on their feet, making enthusiastic noises with their palms and mouths.

  Incompetent?thought Tukana, beaming out at the crowd, thrilled with what she’d begun here today.Incompetent, my hairy ass...

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “We’ve only got one day here in Washington before the conference begins,” said Mary, “and there’s so much I want to show you. But I wanted to start with this. Nothing else says more about this country, and about what it means to be human-my kind of human.”

  Ponter looked at the strange vista in front of him, not understanding. There was a scar in the grass-covered landscape, a deep welt that ran for eighty paces then met, at an obtuse angle, another similar scar.

  The scars were black and reflective-a...what was that word again? Anox-uh-mor-on, that was it; a contradiction in terms. Black, meaning it absorbed all light; reflective, meaning it bounced light back.

  And yet that’s precisely what it was, a black mirror, reflecting Ponter’s face, and Mary’s, too. Two kinds of humanity-not just female and male, but two separate species, two different iterations of the human theme. Her reflection showed what she called aHomo sapiens and he called a Gliksin: her strange upright forehead, minuscule nose, and-there was no word in Ponter’s language for it-herchin .

  And his reflection showed what she called aHomo neanderthalensis and he called aBarast, the word for “human” in his language: a Neanderthal’s broad countenance, with a doubly arched browridge and a proper-sized nose extending across a third of his face.

  “What is it?” asked Ponter, staring at the oblong blackness, at their reflections.

  “It’s a memorial,” said Mary. She looked away from the black wall and waved her hand at objects in the distance. “This whole mall is filled with memorials. The pair of walls here point at two of the most important ones. That spire is the Washington Monument, a memorial to the first U.S. president. Over there, that’s the Lincoln Memorial, commemorating the president who freed the slaves.”

  Ponter’s translator bleeped.

  Mary let out a sigh. Evidently there was still more complexity, more-what had she called it?-more dirty linen to be aired.

  “We’ll visit both those memorials later,” said Mary. “But, as I said, I wanted to start here. This is the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.”

  “Vietnam is one of your nations, is it not?” said Ponter.

  Mary nodded. “In southeast Asia-southeast Galasoy. Just north of the equator. An S-shaped bit of land”-she drew the letter with a finger in the air so that Ponter would understand-“on the Pacific seaboard.”

  “We call the same place Holtanatan. But on my version of Earth it is very hot, very humid, rainy, full of swamps, and overrun by insects. No one lives there.”

  Mary lifted her eyebrows. “Over eighty million people live there in this reality.”

  Ponter shook his head. The humans of this version of Earth were so...sounrestrained .

  “And,” continued Mary, “a war was fought there.”

  “Over what? Over swamps?”

  Mary closed her eyes. “Over ideology. Remember I told you about the Cold War? This was part of that-but this part was hot.”

  “Hot?” Ponter shook his head. “You are not referring to temperature, are you?”

  “No.Hot. As in a shooting war. As in people died.”

  Ponter frowned. “How many people?”

  “In total, from all sides? No one really knows. Over a million of the local South Vietnamese. Somewhere between half a million and a million North Vietnamese. Plus...” She gestured at the wall.

  “Yes?” said Ponter, still baffled by the reflecting blackness.

  “Plus fifty-eight thousand, two hundred and
nine Americans. These two walls commemorate them.”

  “Commemorate them how?”

  “See the writing engraved in the black granite?”

  Ponter nodded.

  “Those are names-names of the confirmed dead, and of those missing in action who never came home.” Mary paused. “The war ended in 1975.”

  “But this is the year you reckon as”-and Ponter named it.

  Mary nodded.

  Ponter looked down. “I do not think the missing are coming home.” He moved closer to the wall. “How are the names arrayed?”

  “Chronologically. By date of death.”

  Ponter looked at the names, all in what he’d learned were known as capital letters, a small mark-a bullet, isn’t that what they called it, one of their many words that served double duty?-separating each name from the next.

  Ponter couldn’t read English characters; he was only beginning to grasp this strange notion of a phonetic alphabet. Mary moved in beside him, and, in a soft voice, read some of the names to him. “Mike A. Maksin. Bruce J. Moran. Bobbie Joe Mounts. Raymond D. McGlothin.” She pointed at another line, apparently chosen at random. “Samuel F. Hollifield, Jr. Rufus Hood. James M. Inman. David L. Johnson. Arnoldo L. Carrillo.”

  And another line, farther down. “Donney L. Jackson. Bobby W. Jobe. Bobby Ray Jones. Halcott P. Jones, Jr.”

  “Fifty-eight thousand of them,” said Ponter, his voice as soft as Mary’s.

  “Yes.”

  “But-but you said these are dead Americans?”

  Mary nodded.

  “What were they doing fighting a war half a world away?”

  “They were helping the South Vietnamese. See, in 1954, Vietnam had been divided into two halves, North Vietnam and South Vietnam, as part of a peace agreement, each with its own kind of government. Two years later, in 1956, there were to be free elections throughout both halves, supervised by an international committee, to unify Vietnam under a single, popularly elected government. But when 1956 rolled around, the leader of South Vietnam refused to hold the scheduled elections.”