Bedros looked like he was about to make a sarcastic remark, but thought better of it. “Tell me,” he said.
“They believe there is a purpose to all this.” Tukana spread her arms, encompassing everything around her. “They believe there is a meaning to life.”
“Because they have deluded themselves into thinking the universe has a guiding intelligence.”
“In part, yes. But it goes deeper than that. Even their atheists—the ones among them who don’t believe in their God—search for meaning, for explanations. We exist—but they live. They seek.”
“We seek, too. We engage in science.”
“But we do it out of practicality. We want a better tool, so we study until we can make one. But they preoccupy themselves with what they themselves call big questions: Why are we here? What is all this for? ”
“Those are meaningless questions.”
“Are they?”
“Of course they are!”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Tukana Prat. “But perhaps not. Perhaps they are getting close to answering them, close to a new enlightenment.”
“And then they’ll stop trying to kill each other? Then they’ll stop raping their environment?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. There is goodness in them.”
“There is death in them. The only way we will survive contact with them is if they kill themselves off before they manage to kill us.”
Tukana closed her eyes. “I know you mean well, Councilor Bedros, and—”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I understand you have the best interests of our people at heart. But so do I. And my perspective is that of a diplomat.”
“An incompetent diplomat,” snapped Bedros. “Even the Gliksins think so!”
“I—”
“Or do you always kill the natives?”
“Look, Councilor, I am as upset about that as you are, but—”
“Enough!” shouted Bedros. “Enough! We never should have let Boddit push us into doing this in the first place. It’s time for older and wiser heads to prevail.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mary stepped quietly into Ponter’s hospital room. The surgeons had had no trouble removing the bullet—postcranial Neanderthal anatomy was close to that of Homo sapiens, after all, and Hak had apparently conversed with them throughout the entire procedure. Ponter had lost enough blood that a transfusion would normally have been in order, but it had seemed best to avoid that until much more was known about Neanderthal hematology. A saline drip was hooked up to Ponter’s arm, and Hak had frequent dialogues with the physicians about Ponter’s condition.
Ponter had been unconscious most of the time since the surgery. Indeed, during it, he’d been given an injection to put him to sleep, using a chemical from his medical belt, as instructed by Hak.
Mary watched Ponter’s broad chest rise and fall. She thought back to the first time she’d seen him, which had also been in a hospital room. Then, she’d looked at him with astonishment. She hadn’t believed a modern Neanderthal was possible.
Now, though, she didn’t look at him as a bizarre specimen, as a freak, as an impossibility. Now, she looked at him with love. And her heart was breaking.
Suddenly, Ponter’s eyes opened. “Mare,” he said, softly.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mary said, crossing over to the bed.
“I was already awake,” said Ponter. “Hak had been playing some music for me. And then I smelled you.”
“How are you?” asked Mary, drawing a metal-framed chair up next to the bed.
Ponter pulled back his sheet. His hairy chest was naked, but a large pad of gauze, stained russet with dried blood, was held to his shoulder with white medical tape.
“I am to live,” he said.
“I am so sorry this happened to you,” said Mary.
“How is Tukana?” asked Ponter.
Mary raised her eyebrows, surprised that Ponter had not been informed. “She chased the man who shot you.”
A wan smile touched Ponter’s broad mouth. “I suspect he is in worse shape than she, then.”
“I’ll say,” said Mary softly. “Ponter, she killed him.”
Ponter said nothing for a moment. “We rarely take justice into our own hands.”
“I listened to them arguing about that on TV while you were in surgery,” Mary said. “Most are of the opinion that it was self-defense.”
“How did she kill him?”
Mary shrugged a bit, acknowledging there was no nice way to say this. “She smashed his head into the pavement, and it…it burst open.”
Ponter was quiet for a time. “Oh,” he said at last. “What will happen to her?”
Mary frowned. She’d once read a courtroom drama that The Globe and Mail had raved about in which an extraterrestrial was put on trial in L.A., charged with murdering a human. But there was one key difference here…
“We exempt recognized foreign ambassadors from most laws; it’s called ‘diplomatic immunity,’ and Tukana has it, since she was appearing at the UN under the umbrella of being a Canadian diplomat.”
“What do you mean?”
Mary frowned, looking for an example. “In 2001, Andrei Kneyazev, a Russian diplomat in Canada, got drunk and ran into two pedestrians with his car. He faced no charges in Canada because he was the representative of a recognized foreign government, even though one of the people he hit died. That’s diplomatic immunity.”
Ponter’s deep-set eyes were wide.
“And, in any event, hundreds of people apparently saw this guy shoot you, and shoot at Tukana, before she…um, reacted …the way she did. As I say, it will probably be considered selfdefense.”
“Nonetheless,” said Ponter, softly, “Tukana is a person of good character. It will weigh heavily on her mind.” A beat. “Are you sure there is no danger now to her?” He tilted his head. “After what happened to Adikor when I disappeared, I guess I am a bit wary of legal systems.”
“Ponter, she’s already gone back home—to your world. She said she needed to speak to…what do you call it? The Gray Council.”
“The High Gray Council,” said Ponter, “if you are referring to the world government.” A beat. “What about the dead man?”
Mary frowned. “His name was Cole—Rufus Cole. They’re still trying to figure out who he was, and exactly what he had against you and Tukana.”
“What are the options?”
Mary was momentarily confused. “Sorry?”
“The options,” repeated Ponter. “The possible reasons he might have had for trying to kill us.”
Mary lifted her shoulders slightly. “He could have been a religious fanatic: someone opposed to your atheistic stance, or even to your very existence, since it contradicts the biblical account of creation.”
Ponter’s eyes went wide. “Killing me would not have erased the fact that I had existed.”
“Granted. But, well—I’m just guessing here—Cole might have thought you an instrument of Satan—”
Mary cringed as she heard the bleep.
“The Devil. The Evil One. God’s opponent.”
Ponter was agog. “God has an opponent?”
“Yes—well, I mean, that’s what the Bible says. But except for Fundamentalists—those who take every word of the Bible as literally true—most people don’t really believe in Satan anymore.”
“Why not?” asked Ponter.
“Well, I guess because it’s a ridiculous belief. You know, only a fool could take the concept seriously.”
Ponter opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, and closed his mouth again.
“Anyway,” said Mary, speaking quickly; she really didn’t want to get mired in this. “He might also have been an agent of a foreign government or terrorist group. Or…”
Ponter raised his eyebrow, inviting her to go on.