Neanderthal Parallax 3 - Hybrids Page 4

  Hours passed; kilometers rolled by. Shania Twain and Martina McBride had been replaced first by Faith Hill and then by Susan Aglukark.

  “Perhaps I’m not the best spokesperson for Catholicism,” said Mary in response to a comment from Ponter. “Maybe I should introduce you to Father Caldicott.”

  “What makes him a better spokesperson than you?” asked Ponter, taking his attention off the road—racing along highways was still very much a novel experience for him—to look at Mary.

  “Well, he’s ordained.” Mary had developed a little hand signal—a slight lifting of her left hand—to forestall Hak, Ponter’s Companion, bleeping at words she knew he wasn’t familiar with. “He’s had holy orders conferred upon him; he’s been made a priest. That is, he’s clergy.”

  “I am sorry,” said Ponter. “I am still not getting it.”

  “There are two classes in a religion,” said Mary. “The clergy and the laity.”

  Ponter smiled. “It surely is a coincidence that both of those are words I cannot pronounce.”

  Mary smiled back at him; she’d gotten to quite like Ponter’s sense of the ironic. “Anyway,” she continued, “the clergy are those who are specially trained to perform religious functions. The laity are just regular people, like me.”

  “But you have told me religion is a system of beliefs, ethics, and moral codes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely all members have equal access to those things.”

  Mary blinked. “Sure, but, well, see, much of the—the source material is open to interpretation.”

  “For instance?”

  Mary frowned. “For instance, whether Mary—the biblical one, Jesus’ mother—remained a virgin for her entire life. See, there are references in the Bible to Jesus’ brethren—‘brethren’ is an old-fashioned word for brothers.”

  Ponter nodded, although Mary suspected that if Hak had translated “brethren” at all, he’d already done it as “brothers,” so Ponter had probably heard her say something nonsensical like, “‘Brothers’ is an old-fashioned word for brothers.”

  “And this is an important question?”

  “No, I suppose not. But there are other issues, matters of moral consequence, that are.”

  They were passing Parry Sound now. “Like what?” asked Ponter.

  “Abortion, for instance.”

  “Abortion…the termination of a fetus?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are the moral issues?”

  “Well, is it right to do that? To kill an unborn child?”

  “Why would you want to?” asked Ponter.

  “Well, if the pregnancy was accidental…”

  “How can you accidentally get pregnant?”

  “You know…” But she trailed off. “No, I guess you don’t know. On your world, generations are born every ten years.”

  Ponter nodded.

  “And all your females have their menstrual cycles synchronized. So, when men and women come together for four days each month, it’s usually when the women can’t get pregnant.”

  Again a nod.

  “Well, it’s not like that here. Men and women live together all the time, and have sex throughout the month. Pregnancies happen that aren’t wanted.”

  “You told me during my first visit that your people had techniques for preventing pregnancy.”

  “We do. Barriers, creams, oral contraceptives.”

  Ponter was looking past Mary now, out at Georgian Bay. “Do they not work?”

  “Most of the time. But not everybody practices birth control, even if they don’t want a baby.”

  “Why not?”

  Mary shrugged. “The inconvenience. The expense. For those not using contraceptive drugs, the…ah, the breaking of the mood in order to deal with birth control.”

  “Still, to conceive a life and then to discard it…”

  “You see!” said Mary. “Even to you, it’s a moral issue.”

  “Of course it is. Life is precious—because it is finite.” A pause. “So what does your religion say about abortion?”

  “It’s a sin, and a mortal one at that.”

  “Ah. Well, then, your religion must demand birth control, no?”

  “No,” said Mary. “That’s a sin, too.”

  “That is…I think the word you would use is ‘nuts.’ ”

  Mary lifted her shoulders. “God told us to be fruitful and multiply.”

  “Is this why your world has such a vast population? Because your God ordered it?”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  “But…but, forgive me, I do not understand. You had a man-mate for many tenmonths, no?”

  “Colm, yes.”

  “And I know you have no children.”

  “Right.”

  “But surely you and Colm had sex. Why were there no offspring?”

  “Well, um, I do practice birth control. I take a drug—a combination of synthetic estrogen and progesterone—so that I won’t conceive.”

  “Is this not a sin?”

  “Lots of Catholics do it. It’s a conflict for many of us—we want to be obedient, but there are practical concerns. See, in 1968, when the whole Western world was getting very liberal about sexual matters, Pope Paul VI issued a decree. I remember hearing my parents talk about it in later years; even they had been surprised by it. It said that every instance of sex has to be open to the creation of children. Honestly, most Catholics expected a loosening, not a tightening, of restrictions.” Mary sighed. “To me, birth control makes sense.”

  “It does seem preferable to abortion,” said Ponter. “But suppose you were to get pregnant when you did not wish to. Suppose…”

  Mary slowed to let another car pass. “What?”

  “No. My apologies. Let us discuss something else.”

  But Mary got it. “You were wondering about the rape, weren’t you?” Mary lifted her shoulders, acknowledging the difficulty of the subject. “You’re wondering what my Church would have wanted me to do had I become pregnant because of the rape.”

  “I do not mean to make you dwell on unpleasant matters.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. I’m the one who brought up the example of abortion.” Mary took a deep breath, let it out, and went on. “If I’d become pregnant, the Church would argue that I should have the baby, even if it was conceived through rape.”

  “And would you have?”

  “No,” said Mary. “No, I would have had an abortion.”

  “Another time when you would not follow the rules of your religion?”

  “I love the Catholic Church,” said Mary. “And I love being a Catholic. But I refuse to relinquish control of my conscience to anyone. Still…”

  “Yes?”

  “The current Pope is old and ailing. I don’t expect he will be around too much longer. His replacement may relax the rules.”

  “Ah,” said Ponter.

  They continued on. The highway had veered away from Georgian Bay. To their left and right were Canadian Shield outcroppings and stands of pine trees.

  “Have you thought about the future?” asked Mary, after a time.

  “I think about nothing else these days.”

  “I mean our future,” said Mary.

  “So do I.”

  “I—please don’t be upset; but I think we should at least talk about this possibility: when it’s time for me to return home, maybe you could come back with me. You know: move permanently to my world.”

  “Why?” asked Ponter.

  “Well, here we could be together all the time, not just four days a month.”

  “That is true,” said Ponter, “but…but I have a life in my world.” He raised a large hand. “I know you have a life here ,” he said at once. “But I have Adikor.”

  “Maybe…I don’t know…maybe Adikor could come with us.”

  Ponter’s one continuous eyebrow rolled up his browridge. “And what about Adikor’s woman-mate, Lurt Fradlo? S
hould she come with us, too?”

  “Well, she—”

  “And Dab, Adikor’s son, who is to move in with him and me the year after next? And, of course, there is Lurt’s woman-mate, and her woman-mate’s man-mate, and their children. And my minor daughter, Megameg.”

  Mary blew out air. “I know. I know. It’s impractical, but…”

  “Yes?”

  She took one hand off the wheel, and squeezed his thigh. “But I love you so much, Ponter. To be limited to seeing you just four days a month…”

  “Adikor very much loves Lurt, and that is all he sees of her. I very much loved Klast, but that was all I saw of her.” His face was impassive. “It is our way.”

  “I know. I was just thinking.”

  “And there are other problems. Your cities smell horribly. I doubt I could take that permanently.”

  “We could live out in the country. Somewhere away from the cities, away from the cars. Somewhere where the air is clean. It wouldn’t matter to me where we were, so long as we are together.”

  “I cannot abandon my culture,” said Ponter. “Or my family.”

  Mary sighed. “I know.”

  Ponter blinked several times. “I wish…I wish I could suggest a solution that would make you happy.”

  “It’s not just about me,” said Mary. “What would make you happy?”

  “Me?” said Ponter. “I would be content if you were in Saldak Center each time Two became One.”

  “That would be enough for you? Four days a month?”

  “You must understand, Mare, that I have difficulty conceiving of anything more than that. Yes, we have spent long stretches of days together here in your world, but my heart aches for Adikor while I am here.”

  Mary’s face must have suggested that Ponter had said something insensitive. “I am sorry, Mare,” he went on, “but you cannot be jealous of Adikor. People in my world have two mates, one of each sex. To be resentful of my intimacy with Adikor is inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate!” snapped Mary. But then she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “No, you’re right. I understand that—intellectually, at least. And I’m trying to come to terms with it emotionally.”

  “For what it is worth, Adikor is very fond of you, Mare, and he wishes you nothing but happiness.” He paused. “Surely you wish him the same, no?”

  Mary said nothing. The sun was low on the horizon. The car sped on.

  “Mare? Surely you wish Adikor happiness, do you not?”

  “What?” she replied. “Oh, of course. Of course I do.”

  Chapter Five

  “ Four decades ago, my predecessor in the Oval Office, John F. Kennedy, said, ‘Now is the time to take longer strides—time for a great new American enterprise.’ I was just a kid in a Montgomery ghetto then, but I remember vividly how those words made my spine tingle…”

  Mary and Ponter pulled into Reuben Montego’s driveway just before 7:00P.M. Louise and Reuben both drove Ford Explorers—clear evidence, Mary thought with a grin, that they were meant for each other. Louise’s was black and Reuben’s was maroon. Mary parked her car, and she and Ponter headed for the front door. Mary had to pass Louise’s car; she thought about feeling the hood, but had no doubt it had long since cooled off.

  Reuben had a couple of acres of land in Lively, a small town outside of Sudbury. Mary quite liked his house, which was two stories tall, large, and modern. She rang the doorbell, and a moment later Reuben appeared, with Louise standing behind him.

  “Mary!” exclaimed Reuben, gathering Mary into a hug. “And Ponter!” he said, once he’d released Mary, hugging him as well.

  Reuben Montego was trim, thirty-five, and black, with a shaved head. He was wearing a sweat suit with the Toronto Blue Jays logo across its chest.

  “Come in, come in,” said Reuben, ushering them out of the cool evening air into his home. Mary removed her shoes, but Ponter couldn’t—because he wasn’t wearing any. He had on Neanderthal pants, which flared out at the bottoms into built-in footwear.

  “It is a quarantine reunion!” declared Ponter, appraising their little group. And indeed it was: the four of them had been locked in together for four days by the order of Health Canada when Ponter had fallen ill during his first visit.

  “Indeed it is, my friend,” said Reuben, acknowledging Ponter’s comment. Mary looked around; she very much liked the furnishings—a smart mixture of Caribbean and Canadian, with built-in bookcases and dark wood everywhere. Reuben himself was a bit of a slob, but his ex-wife had obviously had great taste.

  Mary found herself immediately relaxing in this place. Of course, it didn’t hurt that this was where she’d begun to fall in love with Ponter, or that, indeed, this had become her refuge, safely locked in, with RCMP officers outside, just two days after she’d been raped by Cornelius Ruskin on the campus of Toronto’s York University.

  “It’s a bit late in the season for it,” said Reuben, “but I thought we’d try a barbecue.”

  “Yes, please!” said Ponter, most enthusiastically.

  Reuben laughed. “All right, then. Let me get to it.”

  Louise Benoît was a vegetarian, but she didn’t mind eating with those who were enjoying meat—which was a good thing, because Ponter really enjoyed meat. Reuben had put three giant slabs of beef on the grill, while Louise had busied herself making a salad. Reuben kept coming in from the backyard, working with Louise on getting everything set. Mary watched them puttering about the kitchen, working together, touching each other affectionately now and again. The early days of Mary’s marriage to Colm had been like that; later, it had seemed as though they were always in each other’s way.

  Mary and Ponter had offered to help, but Reuben had said none was necessary, and soon enough dinner was on the table, and the four of them sat down to eat. It stunned Mary that she’d known these people—three of the most important people in her life—for only three months. When worlds collide, things change fast .

  Mary and Reuben were eating their steaks with knives and forks. Ponter was wearing recyclable dining gloves he’d brought with him, grasping his hunk of meat and tearing chunks off with his teeth.

  “It’s been an amazing few months,” said Reuben, perhaps thinking the same thing Mary had been. “For all of us.”

  Indeed it had been. Ponter Boddit had accidentally been transferred to this version of reality when a quantum-computing experiment he’d been performing went awry. Back on his version of Earth, Ponter’s man-mate, Adikor Huld, had been accused of murdering him and then disposing of the body. Adikor, plus Ponter’s elder daughter, Jasmel Ket, had managed to re-establish the interuniversal portal long enough to bring Ponter home—and to exonerate Adikor in the process.

  Once back home, Ponter had convinced the High Gray Council to let him and Adikor try to open a permanent portal, which they quickly succeeded in doing.

  Meanwhile, the magnetic field on this version of Earth had started acting up, apparently as a prelude to a pole reversal. The Neanderthal Earth had recently undergone its own reversal—and the whole thing had happened extraordinarily fast, with their field collapse beginning just twenty-five years ago and the flipping and re-establishing of the field completed just fifteen years later.

  Mary, still haunted by her rape, left York University to join Jock Krieger’s newly formed Synergy Group. But on a return trip to Toronto, Ponter identified Mary’s rapist; Cornelius Ruskin, it turned out, had also raped Qaiser Remtulla, Mary’s department head at York.

  “An amazing few months indeed,” said Mary. She smiled at Reuben and then at Louise; they were such a good-looking couple. Ponter was seated next to her; she would have taken his hand if it weren’t wrapped in a bloody glove. But Reuben and Louise had no such impediment; Reuben squeezed Louise’s hand, and beamed at her, the love obvious on his face.

  The four of them chatted animatedly, first over their main courses, then over a dessert of fruit cocktail, and finally over coffee (for the three Homo sapie
ns ) and Coca-Cola (for Ponter). Mary was enjoying every minute of it—but also feeling a little sadness, regretting that evenings like these, having dinner with Ponter and their friends, would be few and far between; Ponter’s culture just didn’t work that way.

  “Oh, by the way,” said Reuben, taking a sip of his coffee, “a friend of mine at Laurentian has been bugging me to introduce you to her.” Laurentian University, in Sudbury, was where Mary had done her studies on Ponter’s DNA, proving he was a Neanderthal.

  Ponter lifted his one continuous eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Her name’s Veronica Shannon, and she’s a postdoc in the Neuroscience Research Group there.”

  Ponter clearly expected Reuben to say more, but when he didn’t, he prodded with the Neanderthal word for yes. “ Ka? ”

  “Sorry,” said Reuben. “I’m just not quite sure how to phrase all this. I don’t suppose you know who Michael Persinger is?”

  “I do,” said Louise. “I read the article about him in Saturday Night .”

  Reuben nodded. “Yeah, there was a cover story about him there. And he’s also been written up in Wired and The Skeptical Inquirer and Maclean’s and Scientific American and Discover .”

  “Who is he?” asked Ponter.

  Reuben put down his fork. “Persinger’s an American draft dodger—from the good old days when the cross-border brain drain flowed in the other direction. He’s been at Laurentian for years, and invented a device there that can induce religious experiences in people, through magnetic stimulation of their brains.”

  “Oh, that guy,” said Mary, rolling her eyes.

  “You sound dubious,” said Reuben.

  “I am dubious,” said Mary. “What a load of hooey.”

  “I’ve done it myself,” said Reuben. “Not with Persinger—but with my friend Veronica, who has developed a second-generation system, based on Persinger’s research.”

  “And did you see God?” asked Mary derisively.

  “You might say that, yes. They’ve really got something there.” He looked at Ponter. “And that’s where you come in, big fella. Veronica wants to try her equipment on you.”

  “Why?” asked Ponter.

  “Why?” repeated Reuben, as if the answer were obvious. “Because our world is abuzz over this notion that your people never developed religion. Not just that you had it and then outgrew it, but that in your whole history no one ever even conceived of the notions of God or an afterlife.”