Robert Sawyer - Hybrids

Mary nodded. “Is that-is that why your woman-mate left?”

Bandra got up and tipped her head back, looking at the ceiling. Hundreds of birds were painted on it, representing dozens of species; each meticulously rendered by her. “Yes. She could not take seeing what he did to me. But…but in a way, it’s better that she’s gone.”

“Why?”

“It’s easier to hide one’s shame when no one else is around.”

Mary got up and put an arm on each of Bandra’s shoulders and stepped back a pace so that she could look her full in the face. “Listen to me, Bandra. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Bandra managed a small nod. “I know, but…”

“But nothing. We will find a way out of this.”

“There is no way,” said Bandra, and she moved a hand up to wipe her eyes.

“There must be,” said Mary. “And we’ll find it. Together.”

“You don’t have to do this,” said Bandra softly, shaking her head.

“Yes, I do,” said Mary.

“Why?”

Mary shrugged a little. “Let’s just say I owe womankind one.”

“And here we are, ladies and gentleman,” said Councilor Bedros. “Donakat Island-what you call Manhattan.”

Jock couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He knew New York like the back of his hand-but this!

This was gorgeous.

They were flying over the South Bronx-except that it was old-growth forest, walnut, cedar, chestnut, maple, and oak, the leaves afire with autumn colors.

“Look!” shouted Kofi Annan. “Rikers Island!”

And indeed it was, sans penal colony, of course, and only a third the size of the artificially expanded island Jock knew. As the chopper went over it, Jock saw that there was no bridge leading south to Queens. Nor, of course, was there any airport off to the left, where LaGuardia was in his world. Instead, there was a harbor there. Jock was taken aback when he spotted what looked like an aircraft carrier-he hadn’t thought the Neanderthals had such things. He hated encouraging the Neanderthal next to him to begin his endless chatting again, but he had to know. “What’s that?”

“A ship,” said Ponter in a tone that made it sound as though the answer were obvious.

“I know it’s a ship,” replied Jock, miffed. “But why does it have that wide, flat top?”

“Those are solar collectors,” said Ponter, “to power its turbines.”

The pilot had clearly been told to meander in, giving them the grand tour. They were flying west now, over Wards Island, which was dotted around its periphery with buildings that looked like cottages.

The helicopter continued on. It was as if Central Park had expanded right across the width of Manhattan, from East River Drive to Henry Hudson Parkway.

“Donakat Island makes up the ‘Center’ of the city we call Pepraldak,” said Ponter. “In other words, it’s female territory. In Saldak, there are many kilometers of countryside separating the Rim from the Center. Pepraldak’s ‘Rim’ and ‘Center’ are simply separated by what you call the Hudson River.”

“So the men live in New Jersey?”

Ponter nodded.

“How do they get across? I don’t see any bridges.”

“Travel cubes can fly over water,” said Ponter, “so they use those in summer. In winter, the river freezes, and they simply walk over.”

“The Hudson River doesn’t freeze over.”

Ponter shrugged. “It does in this world. Your activities modify your climate more than you think.”

The chopper had now turned south, and was flying along the river. They quickly came to a slight jog in its course, meaning they must now be passing the untamed wilderness of Hoboken. Jock looked out to the left. The island was there, all right: hilly-didn’t Manhattan mean “Island of Hills”?-dotted with lakes…and utterly devoid of skyscrapers. There were clearings containing brick buildings, but none taller than four stories. Jock turned his attention back to the right side. What would have been Liberty State Park was all forest. Ellis Island was there, as was Liberty Island, but of course there was no statue on it. That was just as well, thought Jock; he didn’t really want to see a 150-foot-tall Neanderthal, although Jock could hear shouts going up from those around him as others spotted the same thing he just had. There were two right whales in Upper New York Bay; they must have swum up The Narrows from the Atlantic. Each was about forty feet long, with a dark gray back.

The chopper turned east, flying over water between Governors Island and Battery Park, then heading along the East River. Jock could see hundreds of arboriculture houses along the shoreline, and-“What’s that?”

“An observatory,” said Ponter. “I know you put your big telescopes in hemispherical enclosures, but we prefer these cubic structures.” Jock shook his head. Imagine it ever being dark enough in Greenwich Village to look at the stars!

“Is there much wildlife?” asked Jock.

“Oh, yes. Beavers, bears, wolves, foxes, raccoons, deer, otters-not to mention quail, partridge, swans, geese, turkeys, and of course millions of passenger pigeons.” Ponter paused. “It’s too bad it’s autumn; in the spring, you’d see roses and many other wildflowers.”

The chopper was quite low now as it continued up the East River, the blue waters roiling in the downdraft from the blades. They came to where the river bent to the north, and the pilot continued to follow its course for another couple of miles then brought the craft in for a landing on a wide open field of tall grass, surrounded by orchards of apple and pear trees. Councilor Bedros got out first, then Ponter and Adikor, then the secretary-general. Jock followed him, and the rest of the group followed Jock. The air was sweet and clean, crisp and cool; the sky overhead was a blue Jock knew from Arizona summers, but had never seen in the Big Apple.

A contingent of local female officials and two local silver-clad Exhibitionists were on hand, and again speeches were made, including remarks by a woman introduced as the president of the local Gray Council. She was, Jock guessed, about his own age-which would make her what? Part of generation 142, he supposed. She had shaved off all her head hair except for a long silver ponytail protruding directly from her occipital bun; Jock thought she looked repellent, even for a Neanderthal.

She concluded her remarks by mentioning the meal they were going to enjoy later that day, with huge oysters and even huger lobsters. Then she called on Ponter Boddit to say some more.

“Thank you,” said Ponter, moving out to stand in front of everyone. Jock was having a bit of trouble hearing him; the Neanderthals had no notion of microphone stands or loudspeakers for speeches, since voices were picked up by and relayed to Companions without any such extra equipment.

“We have worked hard,” continued Ponter, “to try to find the exact spot on our version of Earth that corresponds to the location of your United Nations headquarters. As you know, we do not have satellites-and so we do not have anything as good as your global positioning system. Our surveyors are still arguing among themselves-we might be off by several tens of meters, although we are hoping to resolve that issue. Still…” He turned and pointed. “See those trees there? We believe that they mark the location of the main entrance to the Secretariat building.” He turned. “And that swamp, over there? That is where the General Assembly is located.”

Jock looked on in amazement. This was New York City-without the millions of people, without the air that made your eyes sting, without the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the thousands of taxis, the jostling crowds, the stench, the noise. This was Manhattan…as it had been only a few hundred years ago, as it had been back in 1626 when Peter Minuit bought it from the Indians for $24, as it had been before it had been paved over and built up and polluted.