Robert Sawyer - Hybrids

Mary played CDs on the long drive; it beat constantly hunting for different stations as they moved along. They’d started with Martina McBride’s Greatest Hits, and were now listening to Shania Twain’s Come On Over. Mary liked most of Shania’s songs, but couldn’t stand “The Woman In Me,” which seemed to lack the signature Twain oomph. She supposed she could get ambitious someday and burn her own CD of the album, leaving that song out.

As they drove along, the music playing, the sun setting-as it did so early at this time of year-Mary’s thoughts wandered. Editing CDs was easy. Editing a life was hard. Granted, there were only a few things in her past that she wished she could edit out. The rape, certainly-had it really only been three months ago? Some financial blunders, to be sure. Plus a handful of misspoken remarks.

But what about her marriage to Colm O’Casey?

She knew what Colm wanted: for her to declare, in front of her Church and God, that their marriage had never really existed. That’s what an annulment was, after all: a refutation of the marriage, a denying that it had even happened.

Surely someday the Roman Catholic Church would end its ban on divorce. Until Mary had met Ponter, there’d been no particular reason to wrap up her relationship with Colm, but now she did want to get it over with. And her choices were either hypocrisy-seeking an annulment-or excommunication, the penalty for getting a divorce.

Ironic, that: Catholics could get off the hook for any venial sin just by confessing it. But if you’d by chance married the wrong person, there was no easy recourse. The Church wanted it to be until death do you part-unless you were willing to lie about the very fact of the marriage.

And, damn it all, her marriage to Colm didn’t deserve to be wiped out, to be expunged, to be eradicated from the records.

Oh, she hadn’t been 100 percent sure when she’d accepted his proposal, and she hadn’t been completely confident when she’d walked down the aisle on her father’s arm. But the marriage had been a good one for its first few years, and when it had gone bad it had only done so through changing interests and goals.

There had been much talk of late about the Great Leap Forward, when true consciousness had first emerged on this world, 40,000 years ago. Well, Mary had had her own Great Leap Forward, realizing that her desires and career ambitions didn’t have to take a back seat to those of her lawfully wedded husband. And, from that moment on, their lives had diverged-and now they were worlds apart.

No, she would not deny the marriage.

And that meant…

That meant getting a divorce, not an annulment. Yes, there was no law that said a Gliksin-the Neanderthals’ term for a Homo sapiens — who was still legally married to another Gliksin couldn’t undergo the bonding ceremony with a Barast of the opposite sex, but someday, doubtless, there would be such laws. Mary wanted to commit wholeheartedly to Ponter as his woman-mate, and doing that meant bringing a final resolution to her relationship with Colm.

Mary passed a car, then looked over at Ponter. “Honey?” she said.

Ponter frowned ever so slightly. It was an endearment that Mary used naturally, but he didn’t like it-because it contained the ee phoneme that his mouth was incapable of making. “Yes?” he said.

“You know we’re going to spend the night at my place in Richmond Hill, right?”

Ponter nodded.

“And, well, you also know that I’m still legally bonded to my…my man-mate here, in this world.”

Ponter nodded again.

“I–I would like to see him, if I can, before we head off from Richmond Hill to Sudbury. Maybe have breakfast with him, or an early lunch.”

“I am curious to meet him,” said Ponter. “To know what sort of Gliksin you chose…”

The CD changed to a new track: “Is There Life After Love?”

“No,” said Mary. “I mean, I need to see him alone.”

She looked over and saw Ponter’s one continuous eyebrow rolling up his browridge. “Oh,” he said, using the English word directly.

Mary returned her gaze to the road ahead. “It’s time I settled things with him.”

“ I said it during my campaign, and I say it again now: a president should be forward-thinking, looking not just to the next election but to decades and generations to come. It is with that longer view in mind that I speak to you tonight…”

Cornelius Ruskin lay in his sweat-soaked bed. He lived in a top-floor apartment in Toronto’s seedy Driftwood district-his “penthouse in the slums,” as he’d called it back when he’d been in the mood to make jokes. Sunlight was streaming in around the edges of the frayed curtains. Cornelius hadn’t set an alarm-not for the last several days-and he didn’t feel energetic enough to roll over and look at his clock.

But the real world would soon intrude. He couldn’t remember the exact details of the sick benefits he was entitled to as a sessional instructor-but whatever they were, doubtless, after a certain number of days, the university, the union, the union’s insurer, or all three of them, would require a doctor’s certificate. So, if he didn’t go back to teaching, he wouldn’t get paid, and if he didn’t get paid…

Well, he had enough to cover the rent for next month, and, of course, he’d had to pay the first and last months’ rent in advance, so he could stay here until the end of the year.

Cornelius forced himself not to reach down and feel for his balls once more. They were gone; he knew they were gone. He was coming to accept that they were gone.

Of course, there were treatments: men lost testicles because of cancer all the time. Cornelius could go on testosterone supplements. No one-in his public life at least-would ever have to know that he was taking them.

And his private life? He didn’t have one-not anymore, not since Melody had broken up with him two years ago. He’d been devastated, even suicidal for a few days. But she’d graduated from Osgoode Hall-York University’s lawschool-finished articling, and was sliding into a $180,000-a-year associate’s position at Cooper Jaeger. He could never have been the kind of power-husband she needed, and now…

And now.

Cornelius looked up at the ceiling, feeling numb all over.

Mary hadn’t seen Colm O’Casey for many months, but he looked perhaps five years older than she remembered him. Of course, she usually thought of him as he’d been back when they were living together, when they’d been planning jointly for eventual retirement, already having set their hearts on a country house on B.C.’s Salt Spring Island…

Colm rose as Mary approached, and he leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head, offering only her cheek.

“Hello, Mary,” he said, sitting back down. There was something surreal about a steakhouse at lunchtime: the dark wood, the imitation Tiffany lamps, and the lack of windows all made it seem like night. Colm had already ordered wine- L’ambiance, their favorite. He poured some in the waiting glass for Mary.

She made herself comfortable-as comfortable as she could-and sat in the chair across the table from Colm, a candle in a glass container flickering between them. Colm, like Mary, was a bit on the pudgy side. His hairline had continued its retreat, and his temples were gray. He had a small mouth and a small nose-even by Gliksin standards.

“You’ve certainly been in the news a lot lately,” said Colm. Mary was on the defensive already, and opened her mouth to reply curtly but before she could, Colm raised a hand, palm out, and said, “I’m happy for you.”

Mary tried to remain calm. This was going to be difficult enough without her getting emotional. “Thanks.”