Hybrids

Chapter Thirty-eight

Mary Vaughan sat bolt upright in her bed at Bristol Harbour Village, suddenly awake.

When does—what do you call it?—‘Two becoming One’? When does that happen next? That’s what Jock had asked yesterday. Mary had been too upset about Lonwis’s deteriorating condition and Ponter’s impending departure to really think about it then, but it hit her now, forcing her awake: why Jock should care.

While Two were One would be the perfect time to release his virus. It would be far easier to infect at least the local population in Saldak when everyone of both sexes was together in the Center—and, of course, there was more intercity traffic during Two being One than at any other time of the month; the virus would be spread rapidly.

The four-day holiday would begin the day after tomorrow. That meant Jock wouldn’t act until then—meaning Mary had to act before then.

She looked up at the ceiling to see what time it was—but she was here, not there, and there was nothing on her ceiling. She turned to the digital clock on the night table, the red digits glowing: 5:04A.M. Mary fumbled to turn on the table lamp, then picked up her phone and called Louise Benoît’s home number in Rochester.

“Allô? ” said a sleepy voice after six rings.

“Louise, it’s Mary. Look—Two become One the day after tomorrow. I’m sure that’s when Jock is going to release his virus.”

Louise was clearly struggling to consciousness. “Two becoming…”

“Yes, yes! Two becoming One. It’s the only time on the Neanderthal world when there’s high population density in their cities, and a lot of intercity traffic. We have to do something.”

“D’accord, ” said Louise, her voice raw. “Mais quoi? ”

“What you said we should do: go to the media, blow the whistle. But, look, it’ll be safer for both of us if we’re back in Canada before we do that. I’ll be out of here in half an hour, meaning I can pick you up by 6:30A.M. We’ll drive up to Toronto.”

“Bon, ” said Louise. “I’ll be ready.”

Mary clicked off and headed for the bathroom, starting the shower running. Now, if she only knew how to blow the whistle. Of course, she’d been interviewed on TV and radio plenty of times now, and—

She thought of a nice female producer she’d met at CBC Newsworld in 1996, back when the only Neanderthals known were fossils, back when Mary had isolated a DNA sample from the Neanderthal type specimen at the Rheinisches Landesmuseum. CBC on-air personalities probably didn’t have listed phone numbers, but there was no particular reason why a producer wouldn’t. Mary headed back into the bedroom, scooped up the telephone handset, dialed 1-416-555-1212, Toronto directory assistance, and got the number she needed.

A minute later she had another groggy woman on the phone. “H-hello?”

“Kerry?” said Mary. “Kerry Johnston?”

She could almost hear the woman rubbing her eyes. “Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Mary Vaughan. Remember me? The geneticist from York—the expert on Neanderthal DNA?”

A small part of Mary was disappointed that neither Louise nor Kerry had offered up the cliché, “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Instead, Kerry seemed now to be instantly awake. “Yes, I remember you,” she said.

“I’ve got a huge story for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, it’s nothing I can tell you about by phone. I’m down in Rochester, New York, right now, but I’ll be in Toronto in about five hours. I need you to put me live on Newsworld when I get there…”

Mary and Louise were driving along the Queenston-Lewiston bridge over the Niagara River. Exactly in the middle of the bridge three flags snapped salutes in the breeze, marking the border: first the Stars and Stripes, then the robin’s-egg-blue UN flag, and finally the Maple Leaf. “Nice to be back home,” said Louise as they passed them.

As she always did, Mary felt herself relax a bit now that they had returned to her home and native land. Indeed, an old joke came to mind: Canada could have had British culture, French cuisine, and American know-how…but instead ended up with American culture, British cuisine, and French know-how.

Still, it was nice to be back.

Once off the bridge, they were confronted by a row of customs booths. Three of the four that were open had small lineups of cars in front of them; the fourth had a longer queue of trucks. Mary joined the middle car line and waited for the vehicles ahead of them to be dealt with, tapping the steering wheel impatiently with the flat of her left hand.

At last, it was their turn. Mary pulled up to the booth and rolled down her window. She expected to hear a Canadian customs official’s usual greeting: “Citizenship?” But instead, to her astonishment, the female officer said, “Ms. Vaughan, right?”

Mary’s heart jumped. She nodded.

“Pull over up ahead, please.”

“Is there—is there something wrong?” asked Mary.

“Just do as I say,” she said to Mary, then picked up a telephone handset.

Mary felt her palms go moist on the steering wheel as she drove slowly ahead.

“How’d they know it was you?” asked Louise.

Mary shook her head. “License plate?”

“Should we make a run for it?” asked Louise.

“My name’s Mary, not Thelma. But, Christ, if—”

A balding customs agent, paunch flopping over his belt, was coming out of the long, low inspection building. He waved for Mary to pull into one of the angled parking spots in front of it. She’d only ever stopped here before to use the public washroom—and then only when desperate; it was rather squalid.

“Ms. Vaughan? Ms. Mary Vaughan?” said the agent.

“Yes?”

“We’ve been waiting for you. My assistant is putting a call through right now.”

Mary blinked. “For me?”

“Yes—and it’s an emergency. Come along!”

Mary got out of the car, and so did Louise. They went into the customs building, and the fat man brought them around behind the counter. He picked up a phone, hit a line key. “I have Ms. Vaughan,” he said into the handset, then he passed it to Mary.

“This is Mary Vaughan,” she said.

“Mary!” exclaimed a Jamaican-accented voice.

“Reuben!” She looked over and saw Louise smile broadly. “What’s up?”

“God, woman, you need to get a cell phone,” said Reuben. “Look, I know you and Louise are heading to Toronto, but I think you’d better get up here to Sudbury—and fast.”

“Why?”

“Your Jock Krieger has gone through the portal.”

Mary’s heart jumped. “What? But how’d he get up there so quickly?”

“He must have flown, and that’s what you should do, too. It’d take six hours to drive up here from where you are. But I’ve got The Nickel Pickle waiting for you in St. Catherines.” The Nickel Pickle was Inco’s corporate Learjet, painted dark green on its sides. “I only found out he’d gone over by accident,” continued Reuben. “Saw his name on the mine-site visitors’ log when I was signing somebody else in.”

“Why didn’t anybody stop him?” asked Mary.

“Why should they have? I checked with the Canadian Forces guys down at the neutrino observatory; they said he had a U.S. diplomatic passport, so they ushered him right through to the other side. Anyway, look, I’ve faxed a map to the customs station, showing how to get to the airfield…”