Humans (26 page)

“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.”

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.”

Mary wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. She certainly wasn’t the stereotype of the good Catholic girl, but there was now one hell of a porno film in there…

“Amazing,” said Mary. Lilly, Kevin, and Frank back at the Synergy Group would kill to be standing right here. She looked again at the reconstituted granite block. “Can you edit the stored memories?”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Ponter. But then he looked away. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

Mary shook her head. Despite what they’d come to research, Mary hadn’t been contemplating the rape. “Actually,” she said, “I was just thinking about my first marriage.”

Suddenly she felt her cheeks go flush. She’d never before referred to it as her
first
marriage. “Anyway,” she said, “let’s get on with it.”

Ponter nodded and led them to the front desk, where he spoke to an elderly woman. “I’d like to access my own archive, please.”

“Ident?” said the woman. Ponter waved his forearm over a scanning plate on the desktop. The woman looked at a square monitor screen. “Ponter Boddit?” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

“Funny,” said Ponter. “Funny woman.”

The female grinned. “Come with me.” She led the way back to Ponter’s alibi cube. Ponter held Hak up to the blue light. “I, Ponter Boddit, wish to access my own alibi archive for reasons of personal curiosity. Timestamp.”

The light turned yellow.

The elderly woman then held up her Companion. “I, Mabla Dabdalb, Keeper of Alibis, hereby certify that Ponter Boddit’s identity has been confirmed in my presence. Timestamp.” The light turned red, and a tone sounded.

“All set,” said Dabdalb. “You can use room seven.”

“Thank you,” said Ponter. “Healthy day.”

“And to you,” said the woman as she scurried back to her desk.

Ponter led the way to the viewing room, and Mary followed. For the first time, she really understood what Ponter must have felt like in her world. She could feel every eye in this vast place trained on her, gawking. She tried not to look flustered.

Ponter entered the room, which had a small yellow wall-mounted console and two of those saddle-shaped chairs the Neanderthals liked, presumably because of their wide hips. He moved over to the control panel and started pulling out the buds that operated the unit. Mary peered over his shoulder. “How come you don’t use buttons?” asked Mary.

“Buttons?” repeated Ponter.

“You know, those mechanical switches that you press in.”

“Oh. We do in some applications. But not many. If someone trips and falls, they can accidentally press buttons with their hand. Control buds must be pulled out; we consider them safer.”

Mary had a brief thought of a
Star Trek
episode in which Spock, of all people, accidentally pushed some buttons while hauling himself to his feet, alerting the Romulans to the
Enterprise
’s presence. “Makes sense,” she said.

Ponter continued to pull out buds. “All right,” he said at last. “Here it is.”

To Mary’s astonishment, a large transparent sphere appeared in the middle of the room, floating freely. It split into smaller and smaller spheres, each tinted a slightly different color. The subdividing continued until Mary realized she was seeing a three-dimensional image of the interrogation room at the police station back in Toronto. There was Detective Hobbes, with his back to them, speaking to somebody. And there was Mary herself, looking chunkier than she liked, and Ponter. Ponter’s hand snaked out, grabbing the file folder Hobbes had left on the table and quickly leafing through it. The images of the pages within went by too fast for Mary to see, but Ponter returned to the beginning, then played everything back slowly. To Mary’s astonishment, there was no motion blur at all; she could easily read the pages as they flipped by, although she had to cock her head at an odd angle to do so.

“Well?” said Ponter.

“Just a sec…” said Mary, looking for anything she didn’t already know. “No, nothing there. Can you advance to the next page, please? There! Hold it. Okay, let’s see…”

Suddenly Mary felt a churning in her gut. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”

“What is it?” asked Ponter.

Mary staggered backward. She bumped up against a saddle seat, and used it to support herself. “The other victim,” said Mary…

“Yes? Yes?”

“It was Qaiser Remtulla.”

“Who?”

“My boss. My friend. The head of the genetics department at York.”

“I am sorry,” said Ponter.

Mary closed her eyes. “So am I,” she said. “If I’d only…”

“Mare,” said Ponter, placing a hand on her arm, “the past is done. There is nothing you can do about it. But there may be something you can do about the future.”

She looked up but said nothing.

“Read the rest of the report. There may be useful information.”

Mary took a moment to compose herself, then returned to the hologram and read on, despite the stinging in her eyes, until—

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, yes!”

“What is it?”

“The Toronto Police,” Mary said. “They have physical evidence from the attack on Qaiser. A complete rape kit.” She paused. “Maybe they
will
catch the bastard after all.”

But Ponter frowned. “Enforcer Hobbes seemed doubtful.”

“I know, but…” Mary sighed. “No, you’re probably right.” She was quiet for a time. “I don’t know how I’ll ever manage to face Qaiser again.”

Mary hadn’t intended to bring up the issue of going home—really she hadn’t. But if she were to see Qaiser again, she’d have to go back, and so now there it was, out in the air, floating between them.

“She will forgive you,” said Ponter. “Forgiveness is a Christian virtue.”

“Qaiser’s not Christian; she’s Muslim.” Mary frowned, embarrassed by her own ignorance. Did Muslims hold forgiveness in high regard, too? But, no, no. That didn’t matter. If the situation were reversed, could Mary really have forgiven Qaiser?

“What are we going to do?” said Mary.

“About the rapist? Whatever we can, whenever we can.”

“No, no. Not about the rapist. About tomorrow. About Two becoming One.”

“Ah,” said Ponter. “Yes.”

“Jasmel will be spending all her time with Tryon, won’t she?”

Ponter grinned. “Oh, yes, indeed.”

“And you just saw Megameg.”

“I can never see her enough—but I take your point.”

“And that leaves…”

Ponter sighed. “That leaves Daklar.”

“What are you going to do?”

Ponter considered. “I have already violated tradition by coming into the Center a day early. I suppose it will not compound matters significantly if I go see Daklar now.”

Mary’s heart jumped. “Alone?”

“Yes,” said Ponter. “Alone.”

Ponter stood outside the door to Daklar’s office, trying to summon his courage. He felt like he was back in the Gliksin world; every female he’d passed on the way here had stared at him as though he didn’t belong.

And, indeed, he did not—not here, not until tomorrow. But this couldn’t wait. Still, despite having turned it over in his mind repeatedly on the long walk in from the Alibi Archive Pavilion, he had no idea how to begin. Perhaps—

Suddenly, the door to Daklar’s office folded aside. “Ponter!” she exclaimed. “I thought I smelled you!”

She opened her arms, preparing to receive him, and he stepped into the hug. But she must have felt the stiffness in his back. “What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“May I come in?” asked Ponter.

“Yes, of course.” She retreated into her office—semicircular, half the hollowed-out core of a massive tree—and Ponter followed, closing the door behind him.

“I will not be here, on this world, for Two becoming One.”

Daklar’s eyes went wide. “Have you been called back to the other Earth? Is something wrong there?”

Ponter knew the things wrong there were beyond enumerating, but he shook his head. “No.”

“Then, Ponter, your daughters will want to see you.”

“Jasmel won’t want to see anyone but Tryon.”

“And Mega?”

Ponter nodded. “She will be saddened, yes.”

“And—me?”

Ponter closed his eyes for a moment.

“I am sorry, Daklar. I am very sorry.”

“It’s
her,
isn’t it?” said Daklar. “That Gliksin woman.”

“Her name is”—and Ponter fervently wished he could defend her properly, wished he could pronounce her name correctly “—is Mare.”

But Daklar seized upon the issue. “Listen to yourself! You can’t even say her real name! Ponter, it can
never
work between the two of you. You’re from different worlds—she’s not even one of us!”

Ponter lifted his shoulders. “I know, but…”

Daklar let out a massive sigh. “But you’re going to try. Gristle, Ponter, you men never cease to amaze me. You’ll stick it in
anything.”

Ponter flashed back 229 months, back to when he’d been at the Science Academy with Adikor, back when they’d had that stupid fight, back when he’d provoked Adikor so much that he’d launched his fist toward Ponter’s face. He’d long ago forgiven Adikor, but now, finally he
understood,
understood being so enraged that violence seemed the only alternative.

He turned around and stormed out of the building, looking for something to destroy.

Mary and Ponter returned to the quantum-computing facility. Waiting for them there was a distinguished-looking 143 male, whom Ponter immediately recognized. “Goosa Kusk,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“Thank you,” said Goosa. “I heard about that nasty business in the other world—you getting shot with some sort of projectile weapon, and all that.”

Ponter nodded.

“Well, Lonwis Trob contacted me and suggested an idea for preventing such a thing from happening again. His suggestion was interesting, but I have decided to go another way with it.” He picked up a long, flat metal object from a table. “This is a force-field generator,” he said. “It detects any incoming projectile as soon as it enters your Companion’s sensor field, and, within nanoseconds, throws up an electrostrong force barrier. The barrier is only about three handspans wide, and only lasts for about a quarter of a beat—anything longer would take too much power. But it is completely inelastic, and completely impenetrable. Whatever strikes it will bounce right off. If someone shoots you with one of those metal projectiles, the barrier will deflect it. It will also deflect spears, knife thrusts, fast punches, and so on. Anything moving slower than a preset rate does not trigger the barrier, so it will not interfere with people touching you or you touching them. But it will mean that if another Gliksin wants to try to kill you, it is going to have to come up with a better method.”

“Wow,” said Mary. “That’s amazing.”

Goosa shrugged. “It is science.” He turned back to Ponter. “Here, it straps onto your forearm on the opposite side of the Companion, see?” Ponter held out his left arm, and Goosa attached the device. “And this fiber-optic lead connects to your Companion’s expansion jack—like so.”

Mary looked at it in wonder. “It’s like a personal air bag,” she said. Then, noting Goosa’s expression, “I don’t mean that it works the same way—air bags are safety restraints that inflate almost instantly in high-speed automobile collisions. But it’s sort of the same principle—a fast-deploying safety shield.” She shook her head. “You could make a fortune selling these on my Earth.”

But Goosa shook his head. “For my people, these devices treat the underlying problem: your people shooting us with guns. For your people, they would merely be a palliative. The real solution is not to protect against guns, but to get rid of them.”

Mary smiled. “I’d love to see you debate Charlton Heston.”

“This is wonderful,” said Ponter. “You are sure it works?” He saw Goosa’s expression. “No, of course it does. Sorry I asked.”

“I have already shipped eleven of these through to our contingent still on the other side,” Goosa said. He paused. “One often wishes another a safe journey. That is ensured now. So, instead, I will merely wish you a pleasant trip.”

Mary and Ponter headed down the tunnel, crossing the threshold between universes. On the other side, Lieutenant Donaldson, the same Canadian Forces officer Ponter had met previously, greeted them. “Welcome back, Envoy Boddit. Welcome home, Professor Vaughan.”

“Thank you,” said Ponter.

“We weren’t quite sure when, or if, you’d be coming back across,” Donaldson said. “You’ll have to give us a little time to arrange for bodyguards. What’s your destination? Toronto? Rochester? The UN?”

Ponter looked at Mary. “We have not decided,” he said.

“Well, we’ll have to work out an itinerary—make sure you have proper protection at all times. There’s a liaison from CSIS at Sudbury police headquarters now, and—”

“No,” said Ponter simply.

“I—I beg your pardon?” said Donaldson.

Ponter reached into one of the spare pouches on his medical belt and removed his Canadian passport. “Does this not allow me free access to this country?” he said.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Am I not a Canadian citizen?”

“Yes, you are, sir. I saw the ceremony on TV.”

“And are not citizens free to come and go as they please, without armed escort?”

“Well, normally, but this—”

“This is
normal,”
said Ponter. “This is normal from now on: people from my world passing into your world, and people from your world passing into mine.”

“All this is for your protection, Envoy Boddit.”

“I understand that. But I require no protection. I am carrying a shield device that will prevent me from being injured again. So: I am at no risk, and I am not a criminal. I am a free citizen, and I wish to move about unfettered and unaccompanied.”

“I—um, I’ll have to contact my superior,” said Donaldson.

“Let us not waste time on intermediaries,” said Ponter. “I dined recently with your prime minister, and he said if I ever needed anything, I should call him. Let us get him on the phone.”

Mary and Ponter rode up the mining elevator and got in Mary’s car, which had been parked at the SNO surface building since she’d gone over to the other side. It was early enough in the day that they were able to drive back to Toronto, and, although at first Mary thought they were nonetheless being followed, soon enough they were the only car on the road. “Astonishing,” said Mary. “I never thought they’d let you go on your own.”

Ponter smiled. “What sort of romantic trip would this be if we were accompanied everywhere we went?”

The rest of the drive back to Toronto was uneventful. They went to Mary’s condo on Observatory Lane in Richmond Hill, showered together, changed—Ponter had brought along his trapezoidal case, full of his clothes—then drove off to the 31 Division police station. Mary needed to deal with that bit of unfinished business first, saying she wouldn’t be able to relax until she’d done so. She brought her scrapbook with her.

To get to the police station, they actually drove through the York campus, and then into what even Ponter could tell was a rough neighborhood. “I noticed this on our first trip here,” said Ponter. “Things seem in disrepair in this area.”

“Driftwood,” said Mary, as if that explained everything. “It’s a very poor part of the city.”

They continued on, passing a number of dilapidated apartment buildings and a small strip mall with iron bars across all the shop windows, and at last parked in the tiny lot next to the police station.

“Hello, Professor Vaughan,” said Detective Hobbes, after he’d been summoned to the front desk. “Hello, Envoy Boddit. I didn’t expect to see you two again.”

“Can we talk in private?” said Mary.

Hobbes nodded and led them back to the same interrogation room they’d been in before.

“You know who I am?” Mary asked. “Outside of this case, I mean?”

Hobbes nodded. “You’re Mary Vaughan. You’ve been in the press a lot lately.”

“Do you know why?”

Hobbes jerked a thumb at Ponter. “Because you’ve been accompanying him.”

Mary waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes. But do you know
why
I was called in to see Ponter in the first place?”

Hobbes shook his head.

Mary lifted her scrapbook and placed it on the table in front of Hobbes. “Have a look at this.”

Hobbes opened the pressed-cardboard cover. The first page had a clipping from the
Toronto Star
taped to it: “Canadian Scientist Receives Japanese Award.” He turned the page. There was a piece from
Maclean’s:
“Breaking the Ice: Ancient DNA Recovered in Yukon.” And the facing page had a little item from the
New York Times:
“Scientist Extracts DNA from Neanderthal Fossil.”

He turned the page again. A press release from York was tipped in: “York Professor Makes Prehistory: Vaughan Recovers DNA from Ancient Man.” Facing that was a sheet torn out of
Discover:
“Degraded DNA Yields Secrets.”

Hobbes looked up. “Yes?” he said, perplexed.

“I am…Well, some would say that I’m…”

Ponter interjected. “Professor Vaughan is a geneticist, and this world’s leading expert on recovering degraded DNA.”

“And?”

“And,” said Mary, speaking more forcefully now that the topic wasn’t her, “we know you have a full rape kit from the attack on Qaiser Remtulla.”

Hobbes looked up sharply. “I can’t confirm or deny that,” he said.

“Of course it’s true,” said Mary, feeling guilty even as she said it. “Is there any way we could know that unless Qaiser had told me herself? She’s my friend, and my colleague, for God’s sake.”

“Be that as it may,” said Hobbes.

“I’d like to examine the rape kit,” Mary said.

Hobbes looked stunned by the suggestion. “We have our own experts.”

“Yes, yes. But, well—”

“None of them can possibly be as qualified as Professor Vaughan,” said Ponter.

“Perhaps so, but—”

“Have you done any work on the rape kit?” asked Mary.

Hobbes took a deep breath, biding time. Finally, he said, “If there is a rape kit, we wouldn’t do much of anything with it until we had a subject to match the DNA against.”

“DNA degrades quickly over time,” said Mary, “especially if it’s not stored in absolutely ideal conditions. If you wait, it may be impossible to get a DNA fingerprint.”

Hobbes’s tone was level. “We know how to refrigerate specimens, and we’ve had considerable success in the past.”

“I’m aware of that, but—”

“Ma’am,” said Hobbes, gently. “I understand this case is important to you.
Every
case is important to its victims.”

Mary tried to keep from sounding annoyed. “But if you’d just let me take the rape kit to my lab at York, I’m sure I can recover much more DNA from it than you’ll be able to.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, York isn’t cleared for doing forensic work, and—”

“Laurentian,” said Mary, at once. “Send the kit up to Laurentian University, and I’ll do the work there.” The labs at Laurentian, the university where she’d first studied Ponter’s DNA, did contract forensics work for the RCMP and the Ontario Provincial Police.

Hobbes raised his eyebrows. “Well, now,” he said, “Laurentian’s a different story, but…”

“Whatever paperwork it takes,” said Mary.

“Perhaps,” said Hobbes, but he sounded very dubious. “It would be highly irregular, though…”

“Please,” said Mary. She couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to the only remaining physical proof. “Please.”

Hobbes spread his arms. “Let me see what I can do, but, honestly, I wouldn’t hold out much hope. We’ve got very strict rules about the chain of custody for evidence.”

“But you’ll try?”

“Yes, all right, I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” said Mary. “Thank you.”

Ponter spoke up, surprising Mary. “Can she at least
see
the rape kit here?”

Hobbes looked as astonished as Mary felt. “Why?” asked the detective.

“She should be able to tell at a glance if it is in adequate condition for her technique to work.” He looked at Mary. “Is that not right, Mare?”

Mary wasn’t sure what Ponter was up to, but she trusted him completely. “Umm, yes. Yes, that’s right.” She turned to the detective and flashed her most charming smile. “It’d just take a second. Might as well find out up front if there’s any point to this. Don’t want to put you through all that red tape if the specimens have already degraded.”

Hobbes frowned and looked into the middle distance for a time, thinking. “All right,” he said at last. “Let me get it.”

He left the room, and returned a few minutes later holding a cardboard container about the size of a shoe box. He removed its lid, and showed the box’s contents to Mary. Ponter stood up and looked over her shoulder. Inside were some glass specimen slides and three Ziploc bags, each labeled with various information. One appeared to contain a pair of panties. Another, a small pubic comb with a few hairs caught in it. The third had a few vials, presumably containing vaginal swabbings.

“It’s been in the fridge the whole time,” said Hobbes, defensively. “We do know what we’re—”

Suddenly Ponter’s right arm shot out. He grabbed the bag with the panties, ripped it open, and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

Mary was mortified. “Ponter, stop!”

Hobbes exploded. “Give that back!” He tried to grab the bag from Ponter, but Ponter easily fended him off, and took another massive inhalation.

“Jesus, what are you?” shouted Hobbes. “Some kind of pervert?”

Ponter pulled the bag away from his nose and, without a word, offered it to Hobbes, who snatched it from his hand. “Get the hell out of here,” Hobbes snapped. Two more cops had appeared at the entrance to the interrogation room, presumably coming in response to the shouts.

“My apologies,” said Ponter.

“Just get the hell out!” said Hobbes, and then, to Mary: “We’ll look after our own evidence, lady. Now beat it!”