Нэнси Кресс - Tomorrow's Kin

Every market on Earth had been affected. Conspiracy theories thrived like kudzu: The Denebs were a fiction and the spore plague spread by WHO to neutralize the Russians in world politics. No, the aliens were real and were agents of the anti-Christ—see Revelations if you don’t believe me! No, they were part of an interstellar cartel crushing Earth because we would be trade competition. Sometimes the Jews were part of this cartel, sometimes the Illuminati, sometimes the Russians or Chinese or Arabs. Accusations grew more bitter, small wars broke out, and the third world struggled, often unsuccessfully, to survive.

Marianne kept giving speeches. Harrison now worked with a research team at Columbia, desperately trying to genetically alter the few surviving mice into breeds that could survive in a world where R. sporii lay dormant in every meadow, every river, every rooftop. “But,” Marianne urged over and over, “the aliens did not cause the spore cloud! Denebs are indeed human, our genetic brothers. Their intentions during their year on Earth had been good and their mistakes accidental. A ship should be built using the plans that the aliens had gifted to humanity, taking us to the stars.”

But the Denebs and the spore cloud had arrived more or less together, and for a huge number of Americans, that was enough to “prove causation.” At a speech three months ago, in Memphis, she and Sissy had been pelted with eggs and tomatoes. One rock had been thrown. After the community organizer had hustled them to safety, Marianne had learned that some of the pelters had been armed with more than rocks, although no weapons had been fired.

“You need a bodyguard,” Sissy had said. “I know somebody. We can trust him.” The foundation had stretched its miniscule budget to hire Tim Saunders as her bodyguard. Ex–Special Forces, he owned a small arsenal and was licensed to use it. A week later, he moved in with Sissy.

Marianne said to the stuffed Mus musculus, “‘Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.’” It didn’t answer. Mus, she remembered, had once been nonnative to the United States. An invasive species.

Behind her, Sissy said, “You talking to those mice ?”

“No,” Marianne said.

“Well, it’s time. Dr. Mendenhall’s here to escort you on stage.”

Marianne went to give her speech.

The Decio Mainstage Theatre held 350 seats, and all of them were filled. Marianne walked onto the stage, which featured a gorgeous proscenium arch, and stood quietly near the lectern while the dean of Sciences introduced her. The theater’s excellent acoustics carried Dr. Mendenhall’s words throughout the beautiful, high-ceilinged space with its polished, curving balustrades. Marianne, accustomed to much shabbier venues, wondered how the university could afford to maintain the theater so well. Their endowment must be enormous.

The students were too quiet. Many of them did not look like students.

The house lights had been left up. As she began to talk, the students neither stirred nor changed expression. She covered her three main points: The aliens were indeed human, our genetic brothers; all the scientific evidence confirmed that. Their intentions during their year on Earth had been good, their mistakes accidental, and they had not caused the spore cloud. The spaceship should be—

A girl’s voice, clear and ringing, called from the balcony. “You might not think it was such an accident if your uncle died of spore disease!”

A boy stood in the third row and said, “Isn’t it true the Denebs pay you to advertise this so-called spaceship?”

“Let her finish,” someone else called, and the boy sat down. Marianne hoped it would still be all right, but from the corner of her eye she saw Tim standing in the wings, tense and alert.

“Finish us, is what you mean,” someone shouted—an older voice, deep with maturity and disgust.

Dr. Mendenhall appeared beside Marianne and grasped the mic. “This university will treat its guests with courtesy. So whether you are a member of the student body or of the visiting public, you will let Dr. Jenner complete her remarks.”

They did, but Marianne could feel their anger, rising in the lovely space, a noxious gas. People murmured now, an almost infrasonic drone like a muted drill. Her words didn’t falter, but they sped up.

“In conclusion, let me just say that—”

Someone called, “How do you feel about your son Noah going with the aliens to World? Isn’t that the real reason you’re so desperate for us to go there, and why should the taxpayers fund your little family reunion?”

Mendenhall said, “Dr. Jenner has not—”

“No, I want to answer that,” Marianne said. But the background drone did not stop. She raised her voice.

“Yes, my son accompanied the Denebs to their home planet, along with nine other Terrans—as I’m sure you all already know. My family, too, has been affected by the aliens. But two points need to be made here— must be made here. First, had the Denebs not come to Earth, many more families would have been tragically stricken than actually were. Without the work that Worlders and Terrans did together aboard the Embassy, we would not have had the postinfection treatment for spore plague, a treatment that saved many. Second, we should fund the spaceship to go to World not because I want to see Noah—although of course I do—but because humanity can benefit tremendously from the kind of free exchange of ideas that have already enriched our scientific understanding of—”

“Enriched!” The voice in the balcony was almost a shriek. And yet it seemed to Marianne that it also held a forced note, like a mediocre actor. “You think the aliens left us enriched, lady? My family’s farm lost everything!”

“My father’s stocks are gone!” From a seat to her left.

“The economy’s in the toilet and none of us will get jobs when we graduate, because of your fucking aliens!”

“My apartment’s overrun with rats!”

“Did you yourself ever see anybody die of spore disease?”

People were on their feet now. Some looked bewildered, students and faculty taken by surprise. Others reached into purses and bags and backpacks, and eggs and rotten fruit began to rain onto the stage. Marianne stood her ground; this had happened before. She cried, “We cannot get—” at the same moment that an outraged Dr. Mendenhall shouted, “People! People!”

The lights went out.

A shocked, disoriented moment. Then it all happened at once. Marianne heard bodies shoving, steps running toward the stage, and the sound of gunfire. Screams. Tim was on her, covering her body with his own, pulling her relentlessly to one side. He knew where he was going, even in the dark; he’d have made sure earlier of the exits. In thirty seconds Marianne was in the wings, through a fire door, hustled down a set of steps.

She gasped, “I can’t just leave Dr.—”

“Forget him,” Tim said grimly, “it’s you they want. Come on, Marianne!”

She was out another door, she was outside, she was running across a parking lot, bent low and shielded by Tim’s arm. Then she was in the car and Sissy was driving away as the first of the police cars raced toward the arts center.

“You okay?” Tim said.

“Yes, but—”

“Fucking amateurs.” He was smiling: adrenaline pumping, taut body alive. “Didn’t even block the exits. Not a clue how to organize a riot.”

“Good thing for us,” Sissy said tartly, her red curls bobbing in the rearview mirror. “Marianne, you want to go make a police report?”

“Yes,” she said. “That… that hasn’t happened before. Not so very… that hasn’t happened.”