Hybrids

Mary entered “minimax” at the password prompt, gaining access to the hidden files on the Synergy server. She then clicked on the Surfaris icon, and the USAMRIID Geneplex program opened, displaying the virus’s design. Mary set about modifying it.

It was a heady experience. Despite her scientific training, despite everything Vissan had said, down deep, some part of Mary still thought there was something mystical about life; that, at its core, it was more than just chemistry. But of course it wasn’t; the geneticist in her knew that. Program the right sequence of nucleotides, and you’ll ultimately produce a series of proteins that will do precisely what you wish. Still, Mary could scarcely believe what she was doing. It was like back when she was married to Colm. He’d written poetry in his spare time, selling—in the poet’s sense of the word, meaning giving away in exchange for copies of the publication—dozens of poems to places like The Malahat Review, White Wall Review, and HazMat. Mary had always been astonished that he could sit down at his keyboard, pounding away in WordStar—would he ever give that program up?—and produce something beautiful, meaningful, and unique out of absolutely nothing.

And now Mary was doing the same thing: specifying sequences that would eventually be output as an actual life-form—or, at least, as a virus—that had never existed before. Of course, she was really only modifying the existing Surfaris template that some other geneticist had created, but, still, the resulting virus would indeed be novel.

And yet, the virus she was creating wouldn’t actually do anything. Whereas the original design would have aborted only if it was hosted in the cell of a Gliksin, rather than a Barast, Mary’s version would abort regardless of the input it received: it would do nothing no matter what sort of cell it was within. It was only the branching logic Mary was changing. She left the code that would produce the hemorrhagic fever intact not out of any desire to see it ever invoked, but rather to make sure that, at a cursory glance at least, her sequence would look like the one Jock had intended the codon writer to produce.

Mary wanted a name to mentally distinguish her version from Jock’s. She frowned, trying to think of something appropriate. Jock’s original had been named “Surfaris”—a word that even the on-line Oxford English Dictionary didn’t have in its database. But then it occurred to Mary that it might be a plural form, and so she tried what she guessed would be the singular, although that looked like it could be a plural in its own right: “surfari.”

And there it was: a blending of “surfing” and “safari,” referring to the search surfers make for decent waves. Mary couldn’t see the relevance, so she typed the term, in the plural form Jock had used, into Google.

Of course.

The Surfaris. A rock group who in 1963 recorded what went on to be a standard on golden-oldie stations, “Wipeout.”

Sweet Jesus, thought Mary. Wipeout.

She shook her head in disgust.

Well, what’s the opposite of “wipeout?”

At thirty-nine, Mary was young enough—barely—to remember the heyday of vinyl 45-rpm records. Doubtless “Wipeout” had been released in that format. But what had been on—she still remembered the term—the flip side? Google to the rescue: “Surfer Joe,” written by Ron Wilson. Mary honestly couldn’t remember ever hearing that song, but then again, that was often the fate of B-sides.

Regardless, it was as good a code name as any: she’d think of Jock’s original as the Wipeout virus, and her modified, do-nothing version as Surfer Joe. Of course, she saved Surfer Joe with the same filename Jock’s geneticist had used for the Wipeout version, but at least she could keep them straight in her mind now.

Mary leaned back in her chair.

It did feel like playing God.

And, she had to admit, it felt good.

She allowed herself a little chuckle, wondering what Neanderthals called megalomaniac thoughts. Surely not playing God. Maybe “pulling a Lonwis”…

“Mary!”

Mary’s heart jumped. She’d thought she was alone here. She looked up and—

God, no.

Cornelius Ruskin was standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” Mary said, her voice trembling. She grabbed a heavy malachite paperweight off the worktable.

Cornelius held up a hand; in it was a brown leather wallet. “I forgot my wallet at my desk. I just came in to pick it up.”

Suddenly it hit Mary. The other geneticist. The one Jock had been using to code this…this evil. It was Cornelius. It had to be.

“What are you doing in Jock’s office?” asked Cornelius.

Cornelius couldn’t see Jock’s LCD screen from the doorway. “Nothing. Just looking for a book.”

“Well,” said Cornelius. “Mary, I—”

“You’ve got your wallet. Get out.”

“Mary, if you’d just—”

Mary’s stomach was roiling. “Louise is upstairs, you know. I’ll scream.”

Cornelius stood in the doorway, his expression weary. “I just want to say I’m sorry—”

“Get out! Get the hell out of here!”

Cornelius hesitated for a moment, then turned. Mary listened to his footfalls go down the corridor, and the sound of the heavy door to the mansion opening and closing.

Her vision was blurry, and she felt nauseous. She took a deep breath, then another one, trying to calm herself. Her hands were slick with sweat, and there was a sour taste at the back of her throat. Damn him, damn him, damn him…

The rape exploded in Mary’s mind again, with a vividness that she hadn’t felt for weeks. Cornelius Ruskin’s cold blue eyes visible behind the black ski mask, the stench of cigarettes on his breath, his arm pushing her back against that retaining wall.

God damn Cornelius Ruskin.

God damn Jock Krieger.

Damn them both to hell.

Damn men to hell.

Only men would create something like the Wipeout virus. Only men would do something so heinous, so abominable.

Mary snorted. There weren’t even proper words left for such evil. “Heinous” had been robbed of its power by Keanu Reeves using it in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, and “abominable” was almost always followed by “snowman,” as if such evil could only exist in the realm of myth.

She’d always associate such evil with this world, the world of Genghis Khan and Adolf Hitler and Pol Pot and Paul Bernardo and Osama bin Laden.

And Jock Krieger.

And Cornelius Ruskin.

A world of men.

No, not just of men. A very specific kind of man. Male Homo sapiens.

Mary took a deep breath, calming herself. Not all men were evil. She knew that. She really did. There was her dad, and her brothers, and Reuben Montego, and Fathers Caldicott and Belfontaine.

And Phil Donahue and Pierre Trudeau and Ralph Nader and Bill Cosby.

And the Dalai Lama and Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Compassionate men, admirable men. Yes, there were some.

Mary had no idea how to distinguish genetically between great men and evil ones, between visionaries and psychopaths. But there was one glaring genetic marker for male violence: the Y chromosome. Granted, not everyone who had a Y chromosome was an evil man; indeed, the vast majority weren’t. But every evil man, by definition, had to have a Y chromosome, the shortest of all Homo sapiens chromosomes and yet the one that had the biggest impact on psychology.

And history.

And the safety of women and children.

Cornelius Ruskin had a Y.

Jock Krieger likewise.

Y.

Why?

No. No, it was too much. It really was too redolent of playing God.

But she could do it. Oh, she’d never dream of unleashing such a thing here, in this world. She was no murderer—that much of her own personal code of ethics Mary was certain of, for the man she hated most, the man she most wanted to see punished, was Cornelius Ruskin, and when Ponter had proposed killing him, Mary had insisted he not do it.