Hybrids

Chapter Forty

Ponter and the three adjudicators were in the largest viewing room at the alibi-archive pavilion, watching everything unfold from multiple points of view. Not only had the adjudicators switched Jock Krieger’s Companion over to judicial scrutiny, they had also done the same for Mary Vaughan’s, Louise Benoît’s, and Reuben Montego’s. Four meter-wide holographic bubbles floated in the room, each one showing the surroundings of one of the four Companions on the scene.

Ponter and the three adjudicators were at risk, too, of course. Although the archive pavilion was located on the periphery of the Center, it was still far too close to where the standoff was occurring. “The female Gliksin with the dark hair was right,” said Adjudicator Mykalro, a chunky 142. “You must leave, Scholar Boddit. We all must.”

“The three of you go,” said Ponter, folding his arms in front of his chest. “I’m staying.”

And then Ponter saw Jock pull his gun. His whole spine stiffened; Ponter hadn’t seen a gun since he’d been shot by that would-be assassin outside United Nations headquarters. He relived the moment of the bullet tearing into him, hot and piercing and—

And he couldn’t let that happen to Mare.

“What sort of weapons are stored here?” demanded Ponter.

Mykalro’s white eyebrow went up. “Here? At the archive pavilion?”

“Or next door,” said Ponter, “at the Council chamber.”

The Neanderthal woman shook her head. “None.”

“What about the tranquilizer guns enforcers use?”

“They’re kept in the enforcement station, in Dobronyal Square.”

“Don’t enforcers carry them?”

“Not normally,” said another one of the adjudicators. “There’s no need. Saldak’s Gray Council only authorized the acquisition of six such units; I suspect they’re all in storage right now.”

“Is there any way to stop him?” asked Ponter, pointing at one of the floating images of Jock.

“Not that any of those puny Gliksins could manage,” said Adjudicator Mykalro.

Ponter nodded, understanding. “I’m going to help them. How far away are they?”

The second adjudicator squinted at a status display. “About 7200 armspans.”

He could easily run that. “Hak, have you got the exact location noted?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Companion.

“All right, Adjudicators,” said Ponter, “get to safety. And wish me luck.”

“You can’t just shoot us,” said Mary, trying to keep her voice from quavering, unable to take her eyes off the gun. “There will be a record at the alibi archives.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Jock said. “A fascinating system they’ve got here, I must say: remote black boxes for every man, woman, and child. Of course, it’ll be easy enough to find the archive blocks for the four of us, and once all the Neanderthals are dead, there will be no one to stop me from waltzing into the pavilion and destroying those blocks.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw that Reuben was inching away from her. There was a tree a few meters beyond him; he might be able to get behind it, meaning Jock wouldn’t be able to shoot him without changing position. Mary could hardly blame Reuben for trying to protect himself. Louise, meanwhile, was somewhere behind her and presumably off to her right.

“You can’t expect your virus to have a worldwide effect from one deployment,” said Mary. “The Neanderthals don’t have the population density to support a plague. It’ll never get past Saldak Center.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Jock, hefting the metal box. “In fact, I have you to thank, Dr. Vaughan: it was your earlier research that made this possible. We’ve changed the natural reservoir for this version of Ebola from African shoe-bills to passenger pigeons. Those birds will carry the virus all over this continent.”

“The Neanderthals are peaceful—” said Louise’s voice.

“Yes,” said Jock. As his eyes shifted to Louise so did his gun. “And that will be their downfall—here, now, just as it was 27,000 years ago, the last time we defeated them.”

Mary was thinking about making a run for it, and—

And Reuben did just that, bursting into motion. Jock swung toward him and squeezed off a round. The report startled a flock of birds—passenger pigeons, Mary saw—into flight, but Jock missed, and Reuben was now behind the tree, safe at least for the moment.

When Reuben had made his break to Mary’s left, Louise had seized the moment and torn off to the right. Like most of Northern Ontario in either universe, the ground here was strewn with erratics: boulders deposited by glaciers that had receded at the end of the Ice Age. Louise ran, then dove, making it behind a lichen-covered boulder barely big enough to conceal her body.

Mary was still caught in the center, both the tree on her left and the boulder on her right too far to reach without being picked off by Jock Krieger.

“Ah, well,” said Jock, shrugging to convey that he felt Louise’s and Reuben’s temporary shelters were nothing but a minor inconvenience. He aimed the pistol back at Mary. “Say your prayers, Dr. Vaughan.”

Ponter ran faster than he ever had before, legs pounding up and down. Although there was a lot of snow on the ground, there were many walking paths that had been cleared, and he was making good progress. He took care to breathe solely through his nose, letting his vast nasal cavities humidify and warm the crisp air before it was drawn into his lungs.

“How far away am I?” Ponter asked.

Hak replied into his cochlear implants. “Assuming they haven’t moved, they’re just over the next rise.” A beat. “You should take pains to be silent,” continued the Companion. “You don’t want to alert Jock to your presence.”

Ponter frowned. You don’t have to tell an old hunter how to sneak up on his prey.

Mary’s Companion spoke into her cochlear implants. “Ponter is only fifty meters away now. If you can keep Jock talking a little longer…”

Mary nodded just enough for Christine to detect the movement. “Wait!” said Mary. “Wait! There’s something you don’t know!”

Jock’s aim didn’t waver. “What?”

Mary thought as fast as she could. “The—the Neanderthals…they’re…they’re psychic!”

“Oh, come on!” said Jock.

“No, no—it’s true!” Suddenly Ponter appeared from over a ridge, behind Jock, silhouetted against the lowering sun. Mary fought to keep her expression neutral. “That’s why we have religious feelings, and they don’t. Our brains are trying to contact other minds, but can’t; something’s wrong with the neural wiring—it makes us think there’s some higher presence that we can’t quite connect with. But in them, the mechanism works properly. They don’t have religious experiences”—Christ, she wasn’t buying this herself; how could she expect him to?—“they don’t have religious experiences because they are always in contact with other minds!”

Ponter was moving his splayed legs in an exaggerated fashion, carefully stepping across the snow, making barely any sound. Jock was downwind of Ponter; if he’d been a Neanderthal, he’d doubtless have detected him by now, but he wasn’t a Neanderthal, thank God…

“Think of the value of telepathy in covert operations!” said Mary, raising her voice without making it obvious that she was trying to cover what little sound Ponter was making. “And I’m on the trail of the genetic cause of it! You kill me and the Barasts, and the secret is gone for good!”

“Why, Dr. Vaughan!” exclaimed Jock. “An exercise in dis-information. I’m most impressed.” Ponter was now as close as he could get to Jock without his own long shadow—damn the low winter sun!—falling into Jock’s field of view. Ponter interlocked his fists, ready to smash them down on Jock’s head, and—

Jock must have heard something. He began to wheel around a fraction of a second before Ponter’s hands came crashing down. Instead of staving in Jock’s skull, the fists connected with Jock’s left shoulder. Mary heard the sound of cracking bone, and Jock let out a yowl of pain and dropped the bomb box. But he still had the gun in his right hand and he squeezed off a shot. Jock didn’t have a Neanderthal’s shielding browridge, and when he’d turned toward the sun, the glare had blinded him for an instant; the shot went wide.

There was no way Mary could reach Ponter safely, so she did the next best thing: she ran to her left, joining Reuben behind the tree. Ponter let out a great bellowing roar and swung again, a roundhouse that sent Jock sprawling face-down in a snowbank. The Neanderthal moved quickly, yanking Jock’s right arm back, pulling it in a direction it was not meant to go, splitting the air with another hideous craaack! Jock screamed, and, in a blur of motion, Ponter had the gun. He tossed it away with such force that it made a whizzing sound as it sliced through the cold, dry air. Ponter then swung Jock around so that he was facing him, and Ponter hauled back his own right arm, its massive fist balled.

Jock rolled to the right, and using his one good arm, he clutched at the silver box, drawing it closer to him. He did something to it, and white gas started pouring out of the box. Ponter was only intermittently visible through the cloud, but Mary saw him grab Jock by the throat and haul back with his other arm, aiming his fist for the center of Jock’s face.

“Ponter, no!” shouted Louise, running out from behind the boulder. “We need to know—”

Ponter was already committed to his punch, but must have backed off slightly in response to Louise’s words. Still, he connected with an impact that made a sound like a hundred pounds of leather dropping to the floor. Jock’s head snapped back, and he slumped to the snow-covered ground, eyes closed.

The cloud continued to expand. Mary ran forward, going straight for the box. Gas continued to pour from it, obscuring her vision. She searched with her hands for some sort of cutoff valve, but found nothing.

Reuben had also run forward, but he’d headed for Jock. He was now crouching down, taking the man’s pulse. “He’s unconscious, but alive,” he said, looking up at Ponter.

Mary took off her coat, trying to wrap up the bomb. She seemed to be managing to contain the box, but then it exploded, the coat shredding, Mary’s skin being sliced in a dozen places, and the cloud expanding more and more. It was like being in a super-dense London fog; Mary could only see a meter or two ahead.

Louise was now bending over Jock. “How long will he be out?”

Reuben looked up and shrugged a little. “You heard the sound of Ponter’s fist connecting. Jock’s got a concussion at least, and probably a skull fracture. It’ll be hours, anyway.”

“But we need to know!” said Mary.

“Know what?” asked Reuben.

Mary’s heart was pounding erratically, her stomach was roiling, acid was clawing up her gullet. “Which version of the virus he used!”

Reuben was completely lost. “What?” he said, getting up.

“Mary modified the virus design last night,” said Louise. “If Jock made his stock of it this morning, then…”

Mary wasn’t listening. Her head was swimming, pounding. She wanted to scream. If Jock had used the codon writer to run off the virus that morning, then he had produced Mary’s modified Surfer Joe. But if he’d made it earlier, then the cloud they were standing in was the original Wipeout version, meaning—

Mary’s eyes were stinging, and she was having trouble keeping her balance.

—meaning that goddamned Gliksin bastard lying there in the snow had just killed the man she loved.