Humans

Chapter Nineteen

Mary stepped quietly into Ponter’s hospital room. The surgeons had had no trouble removing the bullet—postcranial Neanderthal anatomy was close to that of Homo sapiens, after all, and Hak had apparently conversed with them throughout the entire procedure. Ponter had lost enough blood that a transfusion would normally have been in order, but it had seemed best to avoid that until much more was known about Neanderthal hematology. A saline drip was hooked up to Ponter’s arm, and Hak had frequent dialogues with the physicians about Ponter’s condition.

Ponter had been unconscious most of the time since the surgery. Indeed, during it, he’d been given an injection to put him to sleep, using a chemical from his medical belt, as instructed by Hak.

Mary watched Ponter’s broad chest rise and fall. She thought back to the first time she’d seen him, which had also been in a hospital room. Then, she’d looked at him with astonishment. She hadn’t believed a modern Neanderthal was possible.

Now, though, she didn’t look at him as a bizarre specimen, as a freak, as an impossibility. Now, she looked at him with love. And her heart was breaking.

Suddenly, Ponter’s eyes opened. “Mare,” he said, softly.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mary said, crossing over to the bed.

“I was already awake,” said Ponter. “Hak had been playing some music for me. And then I smelled you.”

“How are you?” asked Mary, drawing a metal-framed chair up next to the bed.

Ponter pulled back his sheet. His hairy chest was naked, but a large pad of gauze, stained russet with dried blood, was held to his shoulder with white medical tape.

“I am to live,” he said.

“I am so sorry this happened to you,” said Mary.

“How is Tukana?” asked Ponter.

Mary raised her eyebrows, surprised that Ponter had not been informed. “She chased the man who shot you.”

A wan smile touched Ponter’s broad mouth. “I suspect he is in worse shape than she, then.”

“I’ll say,” said Mary softly. “Ponter, she killed him.”

Ponter said nothing for a moment. “We rarely take justice into our own hands.”

“I listened to them arguing about that on TV while you were in surgery,” Mary said. “Most are of the opinion that it was self-defense.”

“How did she kill him?”

Mary shrugged a bit, acknowledging there was no nice way to say this. “She smashed his head into the pavement, and it…it burst open.”

Ponter was quiet for a time. “Oh,” he said at last. “What will happen to her?”

Mary frowned. She’d once read a courtroom drama that The Globe and Mail had raved about in which an extraterrestrial was put on trial in L.A., charged with murdering a human. But there was one key difference here…

“We exempt recognized foreign ambassadors from most laws; it’s called ‘diplomatic immunity,’ and Tukana has it, since she was appearing at the UN under the umbrella of being a Canadian diplomat.”

“What do you mean?”

Mary frowned, looking for an example. “In 2001, Andrei Kneyazev, a Russian diplomat in Canada, got drunk and ran into two pedestrians with his car. He faced no charges in Canada because he was the representative of a recognized foreign government, even though one of the people he hit died. That’s diplomatic immunity.”

Ponter’s deep-set eyes were wide.

“And, in any event, hundreds of people apparently saw this guy shoot you, and shoot at Tukana, before she…um, reacted …the way she did. As I say, it will probably be considered selfdefense.”

“Nonetheless,” said Ponter, softly, “Tukana is a person of good character. It will weigh heavily on her mind.” A beat. “Are you sure there is no danger now to her?” He tilted his head. “After what happened to Adikor when I disappeared, I guess I am a bit wary of legal systems.”

“Ponter, she’s already gone back home—to your world. She said she needed to speak to…what do you call it? The Gray Council.”

“The High Gray Council,” said Ponter, “if you are referring to the world government.” A beat. “What about the dead man?”

Mary frowned. “His name was Cole—Rufus Cole. They’re still trying to figure out who he was, and exactly what he had against you and Tukana.”

“What are the options?”

Mary was momentarily confused. “Sorry?”

“The options,” repeated Ponter. “The possible reasons he might have had for trying to kill us.”

Mary lifted her shoulders slightly. “He could have been a religious fanatic: someone opposed to your atheistic stance, or even to your very existence, since it contradicts the biblical account of creation.”

Ponter’s eyes went wide. “Killing me would not have erased the fact that I had existed.”

“Granted. But, well—I’m just guessing here—Cole might have thought you an instrument of Satan—”

Mary cringed as she heard the bleep.

“The Devil. The Evil One. God’s opponent.”

Ponter was agog. “God has an opponent?”

“Yes—well, I mean, that’s what the Bible says. But except for Fundamentalists—those who take every word of the Bible as literally true—most people don’t really believe in Satan anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Ponter.

“Well, I guess because it’s a ridiculous belief. You know, only a fool could take the concept seriously.”

Ponter opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, and closed his mouth again.

“Anyway,” said Mary, speaking quickly; she really didn’t want to get mired in this. “He might also have been an agent of a foreign government or terrorist group. Or…”

Ponter raised his eyebrow, inviting her to go on.

Mary shrugged again. “Or he might just have been crazy.”

“You let crazy people possess weapons?” asked Ponter.

Mary’s natural Canadian thought was that they were the only ones who wanted them, but she kept that to herself. “That’s actually the best thing to hope for,” she said. “If he was crazy, acting alone, then there’s no special reason to worry about something like this happening again. But if he’s part of some terrorist group…”

Ponter looked down—and, of course, his gaze fell on his bandaged chest. “I had hoped that it would be safe for my daughters to visit this world.”

“I would so much like to meet them,” said Mary.

“What would have happened to this—this Rufus Cole…” Ponter frowned. “Imagine that! A Gliksin name I can say without difficulty, and it belonged to someone who wanted me dead! In any event, what would have happened to this Rufus Cole had he not been killed?”

“A trial,” said Mary. “If he had been found guilty, he would probably have gone to jail.”

Hak bleeped again.

“Umm, a secure institution, where criminals are kept separate from the general population.”

“You say, ‘if he had been found guilty.’ He did shoot me.”

“Yes, but…well, if he were crazy, that would be a defense. He might be found not guilty by reason of insanity.”

Ponter lifted his eyebrow again. “Would it not make more sense to determine if someone is insane before you let them have the gun, rather than after they have used it?”

Mary nodded. “I couldn’t agree with you more. But, nonetheless, there it is.”

“What if…if I had been killed? Or Tukana had? What would have happened to this man then?”

“Here? In the States? He might have been executed.”

The inevitable bleep.

“Put to death. Killed, as punishment for his crime, and as a deterrent to others who might contemplate the same thing.”

Ponter moved his head left and right, his blond-brown hair making a whooshing sound against his pillow. “I would not have wanted that,” he said. “No one deserves a premature death, not even one who would wish it on others.”

“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…”