Robert Sawyer - Hybrids

Lurt was nodding slowly. “And you hope to overcome this problem?”

“That was my thought. I think it could be done, even just with the techniques my people have available, but it would be very tricky. But your people are further along in a lot of ways. I was wondering if you knew anyone who might be an expert in this area?”

“I very much like you, Mare, but you do have a tendency to put your foot right in it.”

“Pardon?”

“There is a solution to your problem-a perfect solution. But…”

“But what?”

“But it is banned.”

“Banned? Why?”

“Because of the danger it posed to our way of life. There was a geneticist named Vissan Lennet. Until four months ago, she lived in Kraldak.”

“Which is?”

“A town perhaps 350,000 armspans south of here. But she left.”

“She left Kraldak?” said Mary.

But Lurt shook her head. “She left everything.”

Mary felt her eyebrows shooting up. “My God-do you mean she killed herself?”

“What? No, she is still alive. At least, as far as anyone knows-not that we have any way to contact her.”

Mary gestured at Lurt’s forearm. “Can’t you just call her up?”

“No. That is what I am trying to say. Vissan left our society. She gouged out her Companion and went to live in the wilderness.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Vissan was a great geneticist, but she had developed a device the High Gray Council could not countenance. In fact, the local High Grays called me and asked my opinion of it. I did not want to see research suppressed, but the High Grays felt they had no choice, given what Vissan had done.”

“Good Christ, you make it sound as though she created some sort of genetic weapon!”

“What? No, no, of course not. She was not a lunatic. The device Vissan built was a…a ‘codon writer,’ I suppose would be the correct phrase. It could be programmed to output any sequence of deoxyribonucleic acid or ribonucleic acid imaginable, along with associated proteins. If you could think it up, Vissan’s codon writer could produce it.”

“Really? Wow! That sounds amazingly useful.”

“It was too useful, at least according to the High Gray Council. You see, among many other things, it allowed the production of…of…I am not sure of your word: the half-sets of chromosomes that exist in sex cells.”

“Haploid sets,” said Mary. “The twenty-three-excuse me, twentyfour chromosomes-that are found in sperm or eggs.”

“Exactly.”

“But why would that be a problem?” asked Mary.

“Because of our system of justice,” said Lurt. “Do you not see? When we sterilize a criminal and his or her close relatives, we are preventing them from producing haploid chromosome sets; we are preventing them from being able to reproduce. But Vissan’s codon writer would have allowed the sterilized to circumvent their punishment, and still pass their genes on to the next generation, by simply programming the device to produce chromosomes for them containing their own genetic information.”

“And that’s why the device was banned?”

“Exactly,” said Lurt. “The High Grays ordered the research halted-and Vissan was furious. She said she could not be part of a society that suppressed knowledge, and so she left.”

“So…so Vissan is living off the land?”

Lurt nodded. “It is easy enough to do. As youths, we are all trained in the required skills.”

“But…but it’s soon going to be the dead of winter.”

“Doubtless she will have built a cabin or some other shelter. In any event, Vissan’s codon writer is the device you need. There was only one prototype built, before the High Gray Council banned it. Normally, of course, nothing can go missing in this world: the Companion implants see and record all. But Vissan disposed of the prototype after she had gouged out her Companion, and while she was alone. The prototype likely still exists, and it is clearly the ideal tool for making the hybrid child you desire.”

“If I can only find it,” said Mary.

“Exactly,” said Lurt. “If you can only find it.”

“ And it was that questing spirit that let Eagle and Columbia, Intrepid and Yankee Clipper, Aquarius and Odyssey, Antares and Kitty Hawk, Falcon and Endeavour, Orion and Casper, and Challenger and America fly to the moon…”

Mary’s permanent Companion implant had to be installed by a Neanderthal surgeon. Prior to the operation, Mary had returned to the equipment room above the Debral mine where her temporary unit had originally been strapped on, since that was the only place at which its clasps would open. Then, accompanied by two burly Neanderthal enforcers, Mary had been taken to the hospital in Saldak Center.

The surgeon, a female named Korbonon, was a member of generation 145, about Mary’s age. Korbonon normally worked on repairing severely damaged limbs, such as those that sometimes resulted when a hunt went horribly wrong; her knowledge of musculature and nerve tissue was second to none.

“This is going to be a bit tricky,” said Korbonon. The temporary Companion was sitting on a small table, hooked up to an external power source; it was unattached to Mary, but still doing translations for her, through its external speaker. Korbonon clearly wasn’t used to having her speech translated; she spoke loudly, as if Mary could understand her Neanderthal words. “Your forearm is less muscled than a Barast one, which may make anchoring the Companion difficult. But I see what they said about Gliksin proportions is true: your upper and lower arms are the same length; that should give us some extra territory to work with.” Barast forearms were noticeably shorter than their upper arms; their shins were also shorter than their thighs.

“I would have thought this was a routine operation,” said Mary.

Korbonon’s eyebrow was a light reddish blond. It rose. “Routine? Not adding a first Companion to an adult arm. Of course, when the Companions were introduced, almost a thousand months ago, they were mostly installed in adults-but the surgeons who did that then are all long dead. No, this operation has only been occasionally performed since, mostly on those who have lost the arm that contained the implant they received in childhood.”

“Ah,” said Mary. She was leaning back in something that vaguely resembled a dentist’s chair with stirrups-apparently an all-purpose operating platform. Her left arm was sitting on a little table that protruded from one side of the chair. The inside of her arm had been swabbed with something that wasn’t alcohol-it was a pink liquid that smelled sour, but apparently served the purpose of disinfecting the skin. Still, Mary was surprised to see that Korbonon wasn’t wearing a face mask. “Our surgeons usually cover their noses and mouths,” said Mary, a bit concerned.

“Why?” asked Korbonon.

“To keep them from infecting the patient, and the patient from infecting them.”

“I might as well operate blindfolded!” declared Korbonon.

Mary was about to question the statement, then realized what the surgeon meant: the acute Neanderthal sense of smell provided a crucial part of their perception.

“What will you do about anesthetic?” asked Mary. For the first time, she was grateful that Ponter wasn’t here. Knowing his sense of humor, he would have doubtless quipped, “Anesthetic? What is that?”-to be followed, of course, after a suitable pause, with “Just kidding.” She was nervous enough as it was.

“We will use a neuronal interrupter,” replied Korbonon.

“Really?” said Mary, the scientist in her coming to the fore, despite her apprehension about the operation. “We use chemical agents.”