Neanderthal Parallax 2 - Humans

  “Come on, Ponter,” said Mary, surprising herself with the sharpness of her tone. “Can you really be that…that Christlike? The bloody guy tried to kill you. Are you really worried about what would have happened to him?”

  Ponter was quiet for a time. He didn’t say, although Mary knew he could have, that someone had tried to kill him once before; during his first visit, he’d told Mary that his jaw had been shattered in his youth by a furious blow. Rather, he simply lifted his eyebrow and said, “It is moot, in any event. This Rufus Cole is no more.”

  But Mary wasn’t ready to let it pass. “When you were hit, all those—all those months ago—the person who did it had not premeditated it, and he was immediately filled with regret; you told me so yourself. But Rufus Cole had clearly planned in advance to kill you. Surely that makes a difference.”

  Ponter shifted slightly on the hospital bed. “I will live,” he said. “Beyond that, nothing after the fact could erase the scar I will bear until my dying day.”

  Mary shook her head, but she managed a good-humored tone. “Sometimes you’re just too good to be true, Ponter.”

  “I have no response for that,” said Ponter.

  Mary smiled. “Which just proves my point.”

  “But I do have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “What will happen now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mary. “The doctor told me a diplomatic pouch was flown here for you from Sudbury. I guess that’s it over there, on the table.”

  Ponter rolled his head. “Ah. Would you get it for me, please?”

  Mary did so. Ponter opened the pouch and extracted a large thing like an envelope but of Neanderthal design, perfectly square. He opened that up—it unfolded like a flower blooming—and removed a tiny ruby-colored sphere from within it.

  “What’s that?” said Mary.

  “A memory bead,” replied Ponter. He touched his Companion, and Mary was surprised to see it pop open, revealing an interior compartment with a small cluster of additional control buds and a recessed hole about the diameter of a pencil. “It fits in here,” he said, slipping it into place. “If you will…”

  “I’ll go,” said Mary. “I know you need privacy.”

  “No, no. Do not leave. But please forgive me for a moment. Hak will play the recording into my cochlear implants.”

  Mary nodded, and she saw Ponter tip his head as was his habit when listening to Hak. A giant frown creased his face. After a few more moments, Ponter popped Hak open again and removed the bead.

  “What did it say?” asked Mary.

  “The High Gray Council wants me to return home at once.”

  Mary felt her heart sinking. “Oh…”

  “I will not,” said Ponter, simply.

  “What? Why?”

  “If I went back, they would close the portal between our worlds.”

  “Did they say that?”

  “Not directly—but I know the Council. My people are aware that we are mortal, Mare—we know there is no afterlife. And so we do not take unnecessary risks. Continued contact with your people is something the Council would think is unnecessary, after what has happened. There were already many who were against reopening the portal, and this will provide new meat for them.”

  “Can you do that? Just decide to stay here?”

  “I will do it. There may be consequences; I will bear them.”

  “Wow,” said Mary, softly.

  “As long as I am here, my people will keep the portal open. This will give those, like me, who believe contact should be maintained, time to argue that perspective. If the portal were closed, it would only be a small step to dismantling the quantum computer, and making sure there is no possibility of any further contact at all.”

  “Well, in that case, what do you want to do when you get out of the hospital?”

  Ponter looked directly at Mary. “Spend more time with you.”

  Mary’s heart fluttered again, but in a good way this time, and she smiled. “That would be terrific.” And then a thought struck her. “Next week, I’m going to Washington, to present my Neanderthal-DNA studies at the Paleoanthropology Society meeting. Why don’t you come along for that? You’d be the biggest hit they’ve had since Wolpoff and Tattersall squared off at the Kansas City meeting.”

  “This is a gathering of specialists in ancient forms of humanity?” asked Ponter.

  “That’s right,” said Mary. “Most of the people who study such things from all over the world will be there. Believe me, they’d love to meet you.”

  Ponter frowned, and for a moment Mary was afraid that she had offended him. “How would I get there?”

  “I’ll take you,” said Mary. “When do you get out of the hospital?”

  “I believe they wish to keep me here for one more day.”

  “All right then,” said Mary.

  “Will there not be obstacles to us doing this?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mary said, smiling. “And I know just the man to make them disappear…”

  Chapter Twenty

  There was an irony, Ambassador Tukana Prat knew, in this particular man desiring privacy. And yet who could blame him for being a recluse? He was famous around the planet, honored wherever he went. And, indeed, soon the entire world would celebrate the thousandth month since his great invention. He would be expected to make hundreds of public appearances then—assuming, as one always had to when dealing with a person of his age, that he was still alive. He was a member of generation 138, one of fewer than a thousand individuals left in that group—and nobody from any earlier generation still lived.

  Tukana had met 138s before, but not recently. It must have been fifty months since she’d last been in the company of one, and never before had she seen someone looking so old.

  They say gray hair is a sign of wisdom—but the great man’s hair was completely gone, at least from that famous, incredibly long skull. To be sure, he still had fine, almost transparent hair covering his arms. It was an odd sight: a man ancient and shriveled, with skin mottled gray and brown, but with piercing blue artificial eyes, eyes that consisted of polished metal balls and segmented irises, eyes that glowed from within. Of course, he could have gotten artificial eyes that matched his originals cosmetically, but this man, of all people, had no reason to hide implants. Indeed, Tukana knew that other implants governed the functioning of his heart and kidneys, that artificial bones had replaced major portions of his crumbling skeleton. Besides, she’d heard him quip once during a conversation with an Exhibitionist that when people were as old as he was, it was good for others to see that they had replacement eyes, because then they stopped assuming that you’re too old to see anything.

  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 you spared 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. Goosa Kusk ?”

  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; each chose 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 have humanitarian 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 female, 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,” sai
d 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.”