Humans

Chapter Thirty-nine

Ponter waited silently in the building’s entryway, one glass door behind him, another in front. It had taken several hundred beats, but finally someone was approaching, crossing over from the elevators that Ponter could see inside to the inner glass door. He turned his back, hiding his face, and waited. The approaching Gliksin left the lobby, and Ponter easily caught the glass door before it swung shut. He quickly crossed the tiled floor—about the only place he ever saw squares in Gliksin architecture was in floor tiles—and pushed the button to call an elevator. The one that had just delivered the Gliksin was still there, and Ponter went inside.

The floor buttons were arranged in two columns, and the top two had the symbol pairs “15” and “16.” Ponter selected the one on the right.

The elevator—the smallest, dirtiest one he’d ever been in on this world, even dirtier than the mining elevator in Sudbury—rumbled into motion. Ponter watched the indicator above the dented steel door, waiting for it to match the symbol pair he had selected, which, at last, it did. He got out of the elevator and entered the hallway, whose simple beige carpeting was worn through in some places and stained in most others. The walls were lined with thin sheets of paper decorated with green-and-blue swirls; some of the sheets had partially peeled away from the wall.

Ponter could see four doorways on each side of the hall to his left, and four more on each side to his right: a total of sixteen apartments. He moved to the closest doorway, brought his nose to the seam opposite the hinges, sniffing up and down rapidly, trying to isolate the smells that were emanating from within from the general mildewy stink of the hallway’s carpeting.

Not this one. He moved to the next door, and sniffed up and down the seam again. Here he did recognize a smell—the same acrid burning he’d experienced wafting up from Reuben Montego’s basement sometimes when Reuben and Lou Benoît had been down there.

He continued to the third door. There was a cat inside, but, at present, no humans.

In the next apartment, he could smell urine. Why these Gliksins did not always flush their toilets he would never understand; once the technology had been explained to him, Ponter had never failed to do so. He also smelled the scents of four or five people. But Mare had said that Ruskin lived alone.

Ponter had reached the end of the corridor. He switched to the opposite side and inhaled deeply at the first door there. Cow had recently been cooked within, and some pungent vegetable matter. But there was no human scent he recognized.

He tried the next door. Tobacco smoke, and the pheromones of one—no, two—women.

Ponter moved along to the next door—but it turned out to be different from the others, lacking a suite number or any lock. Upon opening it, he found a little room with a much smaller door that hinged down, revealing some sort of chute. He moved on to the next apartment, waving a splayed hand in front of his face, trying to clear the stench that had come up from the chute. He took a deep breath, and—

More tobacco smoke, and—

And a man’s scent…a thin man, one who did not perspire too much.

Ponter sniffed again, running his nose up and down the length of the door’s seam. It might be…

Yes, it was. He was sure of it.

Ruskin.

Ponter was a physicist, not an engineer. But he’d been paying attention in this world, and so had Hak. They conferred for a few moments, standing in the corridor outside Ruskin’s apartment, Ponter whispering, and Hak speaking through the cochlear implants.

“The door is doubtless locked,” said Ponter. Such things were rarely seen in his world; doors were usually only secured to protect children from hazards.

“The simplest solution,” said Hak, “is if he opens the door of his own accord.”

Ponter nodded. “But will he? I believe that”—he pointed—“is a lens, allowing him to see who is outside.”

“Despite his despicable qualities, Ruskin is a scientist. If a being from another world showed up at your door in Saldak Rim, would you refuse to open it?”

“It’s worth a try.” Ponter rapped his knuckles on the door, as he’d seen Mare do upon occasion.

Hak had been listening carefully. “The door is hollow,” he said. “If he does not let you in, you should have no trouble breaking it down.”

Ponter rapped again. “Perhaps he is a heavy sleeper.”

“No,” said Hak. “I hear him approaching.”

There was a change in the quality of the light behind the door’s viewing lens: presumably Ruskin looking through to see who was knocking at this time of night.

Finally, Ponter heard the sound of a metal locking mechanism working, and the door opened slightly, revealing Ruskin’s pinched face. A small gold-colored chain at shoulder height seemed to be securing the door against opening farther. “Doc—Doctor Boddit?” he said, clearly astonished.

Ponter had planned to spin a story of how he needed Ruskin’s help, in hopes of gaining easy access to the apartment, but he found himself unable to speak in civilized tones to this…this primate. He shot his right hand up, palm out, connecting with the door. The chain snapped, the door burst open, and Ruskin tumbled backward.

Ponter quickly entered and closed the door behind him.

“What the—!” shouted Ruskin, scrambling back to his feet. Ponter noted that Ruskin was dressed in normal day clothes, despite the late hour—and that made him think he’d only just returned home, possibly from yet another attack on a woman.

Ponter started moving closer. “You raped Qaiser Remtulla. You raped Mare Vaughan.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ponter kept his volume low. “I can kill you with my bare hands.”

“Are you crazy?” shouted Ruskin, backing away.

“No,” said Ponter, stepping forward. “I am not crazy. It is this world of yours that is crazy.”

Ruskin’s eyes were darting left and right in the messy room, clearly looking for an escape route…or a weapon. Behind him was an opening in the wall—a pass-through, isn’t that what Mare called the one in her apartment?—into what looked like it might be a food-preparation area.

“You will face me,” said Ponter. “You will face justice.”

“Look,” said Ruskin, “I know you’re new to this world, but we have laws. You can’t just—”

“You are a multiple rapist.”

“What are you on?”

“I can prove it,” Ponter said, still moving closer.

Suddenly Ruskin spun around and arched his body, reaching through the pass-through. He turned back around, holding a heavy frying pan—Ponter had seen such things before when he was quarantined at Reuben Montego’s house. Ruskin held the pan up in front of him, gripping its handle with both hands. “Don’t come any closer,” he said.

Ponter continued his advance undeterred. When he was only a pace from Ruskin, Ruskin swung. Ponter brought up his left arm to shield his face. Air resistance must have slowed the pan enough that the shield didn’t kick in, and so Hak took much of the impact. Ponter’s right hand shot forward and seized Ruskin’s larynx.

“Drop that object,” said Ponter, “or I will crush your throat.”

Ruskin tried to speak, but Ponter constricted his fingers. The Gliksin managed to get one more good blow with the pan to Ponter’s shoulder—fortunately, not the one with the bullet wound. Ponter lifted Ruskin off the ground by the neck. “Drop that object!” Ponter growled.

Ruskin’s face had turned purple, and his eyes—his blue eyes—were bugging out. He finally dropped the pan, which hit the hardwood floor with a loud clang. Ponter spun Ruskin around and slammed him against the wall adjacent to the pass through. The wall material caved in somewhat under the impact, and a large crack appeared. “Did you see the media coverage of Ambassador Prat killing our attacker?”

Ruskin was still gasping for air.

“Did you?” demanded Ponter.

Finally, Ruskin nodded.

“Ambassador Prat is a 144. I am a 145; I am ten years younger than her. Although my wisdom does not yet equal what she possesses, my strength exceeds hers. If you provoke me further, I will cave in your skull.”

“What—” Ruskin’s voice sounded incredibly raw. “What do you want?”

“First,” said Ponter, “I want the truth. I want you to admit your crimes.”

“I know that thing on your arm is a recorder, for Christ’s sake.”

“Admit the crimes.”

“I never—”

“The Toronto Enforcers have samples of your DNA from Qaiser Remtulla’s rape.”

Ruskin choked out the words. “If they knew it was my DNA, they’d be here, not you.”

“If you persist in denial, I will kill you.”

Ruskin managed to shake his head slightly, despite Ponter’s crushing grip. “A coerced confession is no confession at all.”

Hak bleeped, but Ponter guessed the meaning of coerced. “All right, then convince me that you are innocent.”

“I don’t have to convince you of squat.”

“You were passed over for advancement, and for job security, because of your skin tone and gender,” said Ponter.

Ruskin said nothing.

“You hated the fact that others—that females—were being advanced ahead of you.”

Ruskin was struggling, trying to get away from Ponter, but Ponter had no trouble holding him.

“You wished to hurt them,” Ponter said. “To humiliate them.”

“Keep fishing, caveman.”

“You were denied that which you wanted, and so you took that which should only be given.”

“It wasn’t like that…”

“Tell me,” hissed Ponter, bending one of Ruskin’s arms backward. “Tell me what it was like.”

“I deserved tenure,” said Ruskin. “But they kept screwing me over. Those bitches kept screwing me over, and—”

“And what?”

“And so I showed them what a man could do.”

“You are a disgrace to manhood,” said Ponter. “How many did you rape? How many?”

“Just…”

“More than Mare and Qaiser?”

Silence.

Ponter pulled Ruskin away from the wall, then slammed him into it again. The crack grew longer. “Were there any others?”

“No. Just…”

He bent Ruskin’s arm farther. “Just who? Just who?” The beast yowled with pain. “Just who?” repeated Ponter.

Ruskin grunted, and then, through clenched teeth: “Just Vaughan. And that Paki bitch…”

“What?” said Ponter, baffled, as Hak bleeped. He twisted the arm again.

“Remtulla. I raped Remtulla.”

Ponter relaxed his grip somewhat. “It stops now, do you understand? You will never do this again. I will be watching. Others will be watching. Never again.”

Ruskin grunted inarticulately.

“Never again,” said Ponter. “Make that pledge.”

“Ne-ver…again,” said Ruskin, his teeth still clenched.

“And you will never speak of my visit here, to anyone. To do so would bring your society’s punishment for your crimes. Do you understand? Do you?”

Ruskin managed a nod.

“All right,” said Ponter, briefly loosening his grip. But then he slammed Ruskin against the wall again, this time a piece of its material falling free. “No, no, it is not all right,” Ponter continued, his own teeth clenched. “It is not enough. It is not justice.” He threw his weight against Ruskin once more, his groin slamming against the Gliksin’s backside. “You will find out what it is like to be a woman.”

Ruskin’s whole body tensed. “No, man. Christ, no—not that—”

“It is only justice,” said Ponter, reaching down into his medical belt, and pulling out a compressed-gas injector.

The device hissed against the side of Ruskin’s neck. “What the hell is that?” he shouted. “You can’t just…”

Ponter felt Ruskin collapse. He lowered him to the floor.

“Hak,” said Ponter. “Are you all right?”

“That was quite an impact earlier,” said the Companion, “but, yes, I am undamaged.”

“Sorry about that.” Ponter looked down at Ruskin, lying on his back in a heap on the floor. He grabbed the man’s legs, stretching them out.

Ponter then reached for Ruskin’s waist. It took some time, but finally he figured out how the belt worked. Once the belt was unbuckled, Ponter found the snap and the zipper that closed the pant. He undid them both.

“You should remove his footwear first,” said Hak.

Ponter nodded. “Right. I keep forgetting they are separate.” He worked his way down to Ruskin’s feet, and, after some experimentation, got the laces undone and the shoes removed. Ponter winced at the odor that came up from the feet. He moved back, walking on his knees, up to Ruskin’s waist, where he pulled down the Gliksin’s pant, removing it from the body. He then pulled down the underwear, shimmying it down the almost-hairless legs, and finally getting it over the feet.

At last, Ponter looked at Ruskin’s genitalia. “Something is wrong…” said Ponter. “He is disfigured somehow.” He moved his arm, to give Hak’s lens an unobstructed view.

“Astonishing,” said the Companion. “He has no preputial hood.”

“What?” said Ponter.

“No foreskin.”

“Are all Gliksin males like that, I wonder?” said Ponter.

“It would make them unique among primates,” replied Hak.

“Well,” said Ponter, “it doesn’t affect what I’m going to do…”

Cornelius Ruskin came to sometime the next day; he could tell it was morning by the light streaming in through his apartment’s windows. His head was pounding, his throat was aching, his elbow was aflame, his backside hurt, and it felt as though he’d been kicked in the nuts. He tried to raise his head from the floor, but a wave of nausea overcame him, so he let his head back down onto the hardwood. He tried again a moment later, and this time did manage to raise himself up on one elbow. His shirt and pants were on, and so were his socks and shoes. But the shoelaces were untied.

God damn it, Ruskin thought. God damn it. He’d heard the Neanderthals were gay. Christ, though, he hadn’t been ready for that. He rolled onto his side and placed a hand over the seat of his pants, praying that they wouldn’t be bloody. Vomit crawled up his aching throat, and he fought it back down with a swallow that was excruciating.

“Justice,” Boddit had said. Justice would have been getting a decent job, instead of being passed over by a bunch of underqualified women and minorities…

Ruskin’s head was pounding so much he thought Ponter must still be there, smashing the frying pan into his skull over and over again. Ruskin closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength. There were so many aches, so much pain, he couldn’t focus on anything.

Goddamned ape-man’s idea of poetic justice! Just because he’d put it in Vaughan and Remtulla, showing them who was really boss, Boddit had apparently figured it would be fair play to sodomize him.

And it was doubtless a warning, too: a warning to keep his mouth shut, a warning of what was in store for him if he ever accused Ponter of anything, of what would happen to him in prison if he ever did get sent up for rape…

Ruskin took a massive breath and moved a hand to his throat. He could feel indentations in it, left by the ape-man’s fingers. Christ, it was probably bruised something awful.

Finally, Ruskin’s head stopped swirling enough for him to try to haul himself to his feet. He used the lip on the pass through to steady himself, and stood there, waiting for the flashes of light to die away in his eyes. Rather than bend over to tie the shoelaces, he kicked his shoes off.

He waited another full minute, until his head stopped pounding enough that he thought he wouldn’t keel over if he let go of his support. Then he limped his way down the short corridor to the apartment’s single, dingy bathroom, painted in a sickly green chosen by some previous tenant. He entered and closed the door behind him, revealing a full-length mirror, cracked at one corner where it had been screwed into the door. He undid his belt and lowered his pants, and then turned his back to the mirror, and, steeling himself for what he might see, lowered his underwear.

He’d been worried that the same sort of fingerprint indentations would be in his ass cheeks, but there was nothing, except a large bruise on one side—which, he realized, must have come from when Ponter first knocked him across the room when he broke through the chained door.

Ruskin grabbed one of the cheeks himself, pulling it aside so he could have a look at his sphincter. He had no idea what to expect—blood, maybe?—but there was nothing unusual.

He couldn’t imagine such an attack would leave no mark, but it seemed that had been the case. Indeed, as far as he could tell, nothing at all had been done to his rear end.

Perplexed, he shuffled over to the toilet, his pants and briefs down around his ankles. He faced the porcelain fixture and reached for his penis, got hold of it, took aim, and—

No!

No, no, no!

Jesus H. Christ, no!

Ruskin felt around, bent over, straightened back up, then staggered back to the mirror for a better look.

God, God, God…

He could see himself, see his blue eyes round in absolute horror, see his jaw hanging down, and—

He loomed into the mirror, trying to get a good view of his scrotum. There was a vertical line running along it that looked like—

Could it be?

—like it had been seared shut.

He felt around again, probing the loose, wrinkled sack, hoping that somehow he’d been mistaken the first time.

But he wasn’t.

For the love of God, he wasn’t.

Ruskin staggered back against the sink and let out a long, piercing howl.

His testicles were gone.