But it was behaving like the one Mary had thought of, the one that would kill Homo sapiens who had Y chromosomes.
Mary hadn’t made that virus. She had not …
Unless…
No, no. That was crazy.
But she’d traveled between universes, and so had Jock. And if, in one version of her reality, she had not made Surfer Joe deadly to male Homo sapiens, then…
Then, perhaps, in another version of reality she had gone ahead with her fantasy, had mapped out such a virus…
And this Jock Krieger, the one who had exsanguinated through every natural opening in his body, might have come from that version of reality…
Mary shook her head. It was all too bizarre. Besides, hadn’t Ponter and Louise said often enough that the universe Mary called home and the one Ponter called home were entangled? That they were the two original branches that had split apart when consciousness first arose on Earth 40,000 years ago?
If that was the case…
If that was the case, then someone other than Mary had modified the virus.
But who? Why?
Chapter Forty-three
“And we are just that: a great and wonderful people. Yes, we have made missteps—but we made them because we are always walking forward, always marching toward our destiny…”
Cornelius Ruskin tried to control it as he watched the news report, but he couldn’t: his whole body was shaking.
He’d intended his modification of Jock Krieger’s Surfaris virus as a defensive weapon, not an offensive one—a way of protecting the Neanderthal world from the depredations of…
…well, of people like him. Like he used to be…
And now, two men were dead.
Of course, if all went as he’d expected from now on, no more would die. Male Homo sapiens would stay in their own world, denied nothing except the right to take their evil through the portal.
Cornelius had found a nice rental house in Rochester, on a tree-lined Leave It to Beaver street; such a wonderful contrast to his old penthouse in the slums. But it didn’t feel comfortable; it felt like hell. He was gripping the arms of his new easy chair, trying to steady himself, as CNN showed the interview with Mary Vaughan, one of the women he’d raped. Not that she was discussing that; rather, she was explaining why male Gliksins had to stay here, in this world, never traveling to the Neanderthal one. Accompanying her, looking hale and hearty, was Ponter Boddit.
The interview had been done by CBC Newsworld, and picked up by CNN; Mary had apparently stood Newsworld up a few days ago, when she’d raced off to try to stop Jock Krieger, but now she was back here, in this reality.
The reality that Cornelius Ruskin had to live with.
“So you’re saying it’s not safe for any male Homo sapiens to travel to the Neanderthal world?” asked the male Asian interviewer.
“That’s right,” said Mary. “The viral strain Jock Krieger released is—”
“That’s the strain the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has dubbed ‘Ebola-Saldak,’ correct?” asked the interviewer.
“That’s right,” said Mary. “We assume Krieger’s intention had been to make a strain that was only fatal to Neanderthals, but instead he ended up with something that selectively kills male Homo sapiens. We don’t know how widely dispersed that strain is now in the Neanderthal world, but we do know that it’s fatal to male humans of our species within hours of exposure.”
“What about this Neanderthal decontamination technology? Dr. Boddit, what can you tell us about that?”
“It uses tuned lasers to destroy foreign biomolecules in the body,” said Ponter. “Both Dr. Vaughan and myself were processed by it before crossing back to this version of Earth. It’s completely effective, but, as Dr. Vaughan said, any male Gliksin infected with Ebola-Saldak will die unless treated by this same process very quickly, and there are very few such decontamination stations on my world.”
“And other than this laser technology, there’s no cure or vaccine?”
“Not yet,” said Mary. “Of course, we will try to find one. But, remember, we’ve been working on cures for other Ebola strains for years, so far without success.”
Cornelius shook his head. When he’d realized that Jock wasn’t just doing simulations but really planned to produce his virus, Cornelius had modified the code he’d written, had let Jock produce liters of the virus in sealed glassware, and then, when that was done, he’d reinstated the original code, so that if Jock checked it again, he’d never know it had been changed.
It was supposed to compensate a bit, be a step toward evening out Cornelius’s karmic account—not that he could ever make up for what he’d done in Toronto. But the rapist had been the old him, the angry him. He really was a new man now—still wronged, but able to control his anger at being wronged. No, he no longer felt the way he had, back when he’d attacked Mary Vaughan, back when he’d savaged Qaiser Remtulla, back when testosterone had coursed through his veins. But they must still feel it, must still wake up in cold sweats, terrifying images of…
Well, not of him, he imagined, but of a man in a black ski mask. At least, that was how Qaiser must see him, for she didn’t know the identity of her attacker.
But Mary Vaughan knew who he was.
It was a double-edged sword. Cornelius understood that. Mary couldn’t identify Cornelius without Ponter being exposed to charges for the…the cure …he’d administered to him.
But, still, the images that haunted Mary surely had a face, white-skinned, blue-eyed, features twisted into anger and hatred.
And now, Cornelius realized, it mattered little that no one would likely ever be able to identify his role in Reuben and Jock’s deaths. Mary had already told the world that Jock Krieger had made some mistake in designing his virus, that he’d been hoisted on his own petard, the victim of his own creation.
And, truth be told, Cornelius didn’t feel too bad about the death of Krieger, who, after all, had been planning genocide for the Neanderthals.
But an innocent man was dead, too, this doctor—this real doctor, this healer, this saver of lives, this Reuben Montego.
Cornelius let go of his chair’s arms and lifted his hands to see if they were still shaking. They were. He grabbed hold of the armrests again.
“An innocent man,” he said aloud, although there was no one but him around to hear it. He shook his head.
As if there could be any such thing…
But, then again, maybe there was.
The obituaries and appreciations of Reuben Montego that had already appeared online spoke glowingly of him. And his girlfriend, Louise Benoît, whom Cornelius had met at the Synergy Group, was absolutely devastated by his death, saying over and over again what a kind and gentle man he’d been.
Yet again, Cornelius had caused great sadness to a woman.
He knew he’d have to do something soon about his castration. Other changes, after all, would shortly begin to occur: his metabolism would slow, fat would begin to pile up on his body. He’d already noticed that his beard came in more slowly, and he was feeling listless much of the time—listless, or depressed. The obvious solution was to start testosterone treatments. Testosterone was a steroid, he knew, produced mainly in the testicles’ Leydig cells. But he also knew it could be synthesized from more readily obtainable steroids, such as diosgenin; doubtless there was a black market in it. Cornelius had tried to ignore the drug dealing going on near his old apartment in Driftwood, but surely if he’d wanted to find a dealer for testosterone, he could locate one there, or somewhere here in Rochester.