Foreigner qa-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  "You know, Mokleb," said Afsan as she made herself comfortable at the beginning of their session, "you’ve chosen an unusual boulder to sit on. Most of those who come to talk with me sit there." He indicated a boulder about ten paces upwind from the one he was straddling. "It’s nothing major, but I’ve been meaning to mention it since we began these meetings."

  "I — prefer it here," said Mokleb. "The view…"

  Afsan shrugged slightly as he lowered his belly onto his own rock. "Of course."

  "Today, I want you to talk a bit about your … family," said Mokleb, "although I admit it’s strange to use the word in relation to any except the imperial clan."

  "Tell me about it," Afsan said dryly.

  "You have four surviving children, is that right?"

  "Yes."

  "And you know them all personally?"

  "Yes."

  "Remarkable," said Mokleb. "Tell me about them."

  "Well, there are my two sons, Af-Kelboon and Kee-Toroca. Kelboon is a mathematician; Toroca is leader of the Geological Survey of Land. Then…"

  "Did you say Af-Kelboon?"

  "Yes."

  "Is his praenomen syllable in honor of you?"

  Afsan sighed. "Yes."

  "How does that make you feel?"

  Afsan’s tail moved. "It embarrasses me a bit. It had never crossed my mind that anyone would take that praenomen."

  "Interesting," said Mokleb. "And what about your daughters?"

  "Well, there’s Nov-Dynax, a healer…"

  "Nov, in honor of her mother, Novato?"

  "Yes."

  "Fascinating. Forgive me for interrupting."

  Afsan tipped his head in mild concession. "And, lastly, Lub-Galpook, the imperial hunt leader."

  "Galpook is your daughter?"

  "Yes. There were many in my youth who said I should become a full-time hunter. Well, Galpook has done just that. And let me tell you, she’s a much better hunter than I ever was."

  "How did it happen that she entered that profession?"

  "The usual way."

  "The usual way for average citizens — through vocational exams? Or the usual way for hunt leaders?"

  Afsan turned his head slightly away. "The latter."

  "So she is perpetually in heat? She doesn’t have a set mating time?"

  "That is correct."

  "I should like to meet her."

  Afsan clicked his teeth lightly. "A few males have said that over the kilodays. I’m surprised to hear it from a female."

  Mokleb let that pass. "Do you see her often?"

  Afsan’s voice was a bit wistful. "That would not be … prudent."

  "Why not?"

  "I should think that would be obvious."

  "Oh?"

  "It would not be appropriate. I’m her father, for God’s sake."

  "Yes?"

  "Look: there are no other fathers in this world — fathers who know who their children are, that is. Emperor Dybo knew his father, of course, but Ter-Reegree had been killed long before I came to the Capital. And Dybo himself has yet to have offspring. I understand that, I think: after his right to rule was challenged by Dy-Rodlox, Dybo had agreed to let his own clutch, the imperial hatchlings, undergo the culling of the bloodpriest. But I suspect that he’s chosen an even simpler path: not to be responsible for any eggs at all." Afsan paused. "So, without any models to follow I’ve had to make up this fatherhood business as I go along. And mating with one whom I know to be my daughter does not seem appropriate."

  "Oh?"

  "Oh, indeed. And since she’s perpetually giving off signs of receptivity, I, I prefer not to spend much time with her."

  "But those who are constantly in heat do make exceptional hunt leaders," said Mokleb. "They have an energizing effect on the members of the pack."

  "I am blind, Mokleb. I cannot hunt anymore."

  "But you could mate."

  "Of course."

  "Have you recently?"

  "No. No, not in a long time. A male normally has to be in the presence of a female in heat to become aroused, after all." He clicked his teeth. "I don’t get around as much as I used to."

  The wind continued to blow across Afsan from behind.

  "It’s an interesting occupation, I should imagine," said Mokleb. "Being a hunt leader."

  "I’m sure it is," said Afsan.

  Mokleb was quiet for a time. "I once toyed with the idea of that profession, but I developed knee problems in my early adolescence. I cannot run fast. They tried hacking off my leg when I was young, to see if it would grow back without the impediment, but it did not."

  "Ah," said Afsan. "I’m sorry."

  "Nothing to be sorry about," said Mokleb, with finality. "If the problem had been solved, I wouldn’t have been allowed to pursue my studies. They would have made me become a hunt leader."

  "Nonsense," said Afsan. "Why, they wouldn’t have done that unless…"

  She got off the boulder she’d been sitting on and walked around to the other side of Afsan’s rock, letting the wind blow over her and onto him. Afsan’s nostrils flared slightly. "Oh, my," he said.

  "Beautiful day," said Garios.

  Novato, who had been making more sketches of the pyramid and the strange tower growing up out of its apex, looked up at the sky. Clouds covered most of it. "Looks like rain," she said.

  "Oh, perhaps, perhaps. Still, beautiful day."

  "Since when is rain beautiful? Especially here, where we get more of it than we need."

  "Oh, maybe the weather isn’t great. I guess I’m just in a good mood."

  "Ah," said Novato, noncommittal.

  At this point, Delplas ambled by about thirty paces away — far enough that normally no territorial gesture was required. But Garios waved at Delplas anyway with a wide sweep of his arm. "Beautiful day!" he called.

  Delplas shook her head. "You’re crazy," she said good-naturedly, but then she splayed her fingers in a conspiratorial gesture aimed at Novato.

  Novato sighed. She’d felt the first tinglings herself this morning, but hadn’t expected anyone else to be able to detect her new pheromones yet. It’d still be a few hundred days before she was fully receptive; given that receptivity came only once every eighteen thousand days, it took its time coming into full bloom.

  "Beautiful day," said Garios again, to no one in particular.

  Males, thought Novato.

  *11*

  The twenty days on the island of the Others passed quickly, and now it was time for Toroca to check in with the Dasheter. Jawn offered a boat and rowers to take Toroca out, but Toroca repeated what he’d tried to make clear over and over, although his speech was more fluent now: "Do not come near the Dasheter," he said in the Other language. "To do so would be bad."

  "I still do not understand," said Jawn. "I am curious about your sailing ship."

  "Accept my words," said Toroca. "I will return soon. I am sorry you cannot see my sailing ship."

  Jawn didn’t seem satisfied, but he let it go. "Swim safely."

  "I will," said Toroca, and, with that, he climbed down the rope ladder and entered the water. It was a long swim out to the Dasheter, but the weather was good. His tail propelled him along.

  Toroca’s mind was full of thoughts as he swam. The Others were so unlike Quintaglios. Cooked food; "cooked" being a word Jawn had taught him. No territoriality; even to Toroca, the open displays of physical contact the Others exhibited were distasteful. And they used tools to kill animals; Toroca had seen many of those metal fire sticks. Toroca shuddered as he swam along: he hadn’t realized just what had happened that first day. Someone had shot at him as he’d approached the shore. Jawn had apologized later; the person on the pier had mistaken Toroca for an alligator.

  An alligator! Oh, the ignominy!

  Toroca continued to slice through the waves, occasionally using his feet to steer in the direction he wanted to go. With the giant Face of God hanging stationary overhead, navigation was easy. The Face was wan
ing gibbous now, its unilluminated limb looking dark purple against the lighter violet of early morning sky. The water was still cooler than Toroca would have liked. Part of him was sad to be leaving the Others, even though he fully intended to return, but it would be good to see faces that were green instead of yellow. He’d missed Keenir’s gravelly voice, and Babnol’s gentle clicking of teeth, and even old Biltog’s endless stories about days gone by. Why, soon he’d…

  What was that?

  Something big was coming toward him, wave tops churning in its wake. Toroca went below the surface and saw it front-on: a body circular in cross section, thicker than Toroca’s own torso, with three equally spaced tapered projections, one on top and two at the lower sides. He kicked sideways to get another angle on the animal.

  Oh-oh.

  From the side, he could see that the upper projection was a stiff dorsal fin, and the two side projections were flippers. The body was streamlined, starting with an elongated snout and ending in a large vertical tail fin. At the pelvis, two more small flippers projected from the creature’s sides.

  A fish-lizard. The Dasheter’s fishing nets often caught small ones; they provided a welcome dose of reptilian flesh in the diet. But this one was half again as long as Toroca. The body was slate gray in color and the visible part of the eyes looked like tiny mercury drops in the middle of raised scleral bone rings. Its nostrils were just in front of its eyes. And projecting forward from its face was that long, tapered snout, lined with sharp teeth.

  The beast quickly turned so that Toroca saw it head-on again. There was no doubt: it was coming after him. Toroca swam well for a land creature, but this animal was in its native element. There was no chance that he could outdistance it.

  Suddenly the fish-lizard was upon him, its long, narrow jaws opening wide. Toroca felt a hundred little daggers tear into him as the jaws closed on his thigh. Clouds of red appeared in the water. Toroca pounded his fists on the creature’s snout. That surprised it; it was not used to battling prey that had hands. The fish-lizard rotated around, its giant tail slapping Toroca. Toroca struggled for the surface, gulping air as soon as he broke through the waves. The animal twisted its body and tried to bring its needle-like prow to bear again.

  Toroca had eaten enough small fish-lizards over the kilodays to know their anatomy: the dorsal fin had no bones in it at all, and the giant tail fin was only supported along its lower edge by an extension of the backbone. The upper prong of the fin was pure meat. Toroca’s jaws were still open wide from taking in air. He chomped down on the upper part of the tail fin, his curving teeth easily slicing into it. The fish-lizard, which had been about to bite into Toroca’s leg, opened its own jaws wide, letting out a silent underwater scream.

  Toroca filled his lungs once more. The fish-lizard was an air-breather, too, but it was cold-blooded and could go much longer between breaths, especially since its body, unlike Toroca’s, was built for subsurface maneuvering. The creature moved almost effortlessly, a little flick of a paddle here, a gentle movement of the tail there. Toroca looked up at the Face of God overhead. He wished for a moment that it really was the countenance of the deity; he most certainly did not want to die out here.

  The fish-lizard was swinging around to attack again. Toroca felt the sharp teeth cut into his tail. Blood was clouding the water, some his own, some the lizard’s. Toroca hadn’t had a chance to examine his own wounds yet; he didn’t know if they were superficial or if he was hemorrhaging to death. And, he thought, God help me if there’s a shark in the area; about the only thing that made Quintaglio dagamant look tame was a shark driven to frenzy by blood.

  Toroca tried beating on the thing’s gray torso with his fists in hopes of driving it away, but it seemed determined to make a meal of him. Perhaps he could gouge its eyes out; but no, the scleral rings of bone afforded a lot of protection.

  Toroca lashed with his tail to get out of the way. The lizard changed trajectory, barreling toward him. Its jaws were closed, perhaps to better streamline its form when moving quickly.

  Suddenly Toroca had an idea. Instead of trying to swim away, he surged forward, his tail undulating, his legs kicking. He almost thought he was going to be impaled on the thing’s long snout. But as the fish-lizard came close, he grabbed the snout, one hand gripping it near its tip, where his handspan was easily enough to wrap around the snout’s circumference, the other hand grasping it at its base, where it joined the reptile’s head. He then brought his right knee up directly under the middle of the snout and, with all the strength in his arms, bent the snout downward. It took everything he had, but at last he felt the long jaw bones snap. New blood mixed with the cool water. Now that there was only ligament and flesh holding the snout together, Toroca finished the job with a massive bite from his own jaws, severing the fish-lizard’s long prow cleanly from its body. The lizard’s tail was smashing wildly left and right, but Toroca kicked out of the way, letting go of the snout, which slowly began to drift downward. The lizard, completely disarmed, tried to butt Toroca with its bloody front end but soon tired of that and swam away. Toroca doubtless had mortally wounded the animal, but he wondered if the reverse was also true. Treading water, he examined the bites on his thigh and tail. Both were still slowly oozing blood, but neither seemed particularly deep. Now that the fish-lizard was gone, the water was relatively calm — calmer, in fact, than it had been when he’d swum in the opposite direction twenty days before. He rested his head on the surface, and, with slow movements of his tail, glided gently onward.

  "We spoke before about the names of your children," said Mokleb, "but didn’t really get into your relationship with them. This is a unique area; I’d like to explore it."

  The sun was sliding down the western sky toward the Ch’mar volcanoes. Two pale moons — one crescent, one almost full — were visible despite the glare. A few silvery-white clouds twisted their way across the purple bowl of the sky.

  Afsan’s face showed a mixture of emotions. "My children," he said softly, adjusting his position on his rock. "And Novato’s, too, of course." He shook his head slightly. "There were eight of them to begin with."

  "Yes."

  "One died in childhood. Helbark was his name. He succumbed to fever." Afsan’s voice was full of sadness. "I was devastated when he died. It seemed so unfair. Like all of my children, Helbark had been spared the culling of the bloodpriest. It was as though God had given him the gift of life, but then snatched it away. Helbark died before ever saying his first word." Afsan’s tail moved left and right. "You know, Mokleb, I’ve never seen any of my children; I was blinded before they came to Capital City. I felt I knew the other seven because I knew the tones they used, knew what caused their voices to sing with joy and what caused their words to tremble with anger or outrage. But Helbark … if there is an afterlife, Mokleb, I sometimes wonder if I would recognize him there. Or whether he would recognize me."

  Mokleb made a small sound, noncommittal. Afsan went on. "After Helbark died, Pal-Cadool and I had gone to the site of that kill everyone keeps talking about — the place where I helped bring down that giant thunderbeast. We found a stone there and took it back to the mountain of stones upon which the Hunter’s Shrine is built. You know the old legend? That each of the original five hunters had brought one stone there for every kill they’d made during their lives? Well, I wanted to bring a stone from one of my kills. Poor Helbark was far too young to have acquired a hunt or pilgrimage tattoo. I thought that maybe if a kill was consecrated in his name, it might help his passage into heaven. Pal-Cadool helped me climb the cairn so that my stone could be placed right at the summit, inside the Shrine — the structure made out of past hunt leaders’ bones. Most people don’t know about it, but on the far side of the stone cairn, there’s a hidden stairway leading to the summit. I couldn’t have made it otherwise."

  "A priest advised you to do this?"

  Afsan shifted uncomfortably. "I rarely speak to priests," he said.

  "Of course, of cour
se," said Mokleb. A topic for another time. "But Helbark isn’t the only one of your children to have passed on, is he?"

  Quietly: "No."

  "There was Haldan and Yabool." A pause. "And Drawtood."

  Still quiet: "Yes."

  "How do you feel about what happened to them?"

  Afsan’s tone was bitter. "How would you expect me to feel?"

  "I have no expectations at all, Afsan. That’s why I ask."

  Afsan nodded, and then, "They say I’m gifted when it comes to solving puzzles, Mokleb." He fell silent, perhaps reluctant to continue.

  Mokleb waited patiently for several beats, then, as a gentle prod, she agreed: "Yes, that’s what they say."

  "Well, most puzzles don’t count for anything. Whether you solve them or not doesn’t really matter. But that one…" He fell silent again. Mokleb waited. "That one mattered. That one was for real. Once Haldan had been murdered" — the word, so rarely spoken, sounded funny, archaic — "once she had been murdered, the puzzle was to figure out who was responsible."

  "And you did," said Mokleb.

  "But not in time!" Afsan’s voice was full of anguish now. "Not in time. Don’t you see? It wasn’t until Drawtood killed again, taking the life of my son Yabool, that I figured it out."

  "Murder is such an uncommon crime," said Mokleb. "You can’t blame yourself for needing more data."

  "More data," repeated Afsan. He made a snorting sound. "More data. Another body, you mean. Another dead child of mine."

  Mokleb was silent.

  "Forgive me," Afsan said after a time. "I find these memories difficult to deal with."

  Mokleb nodded.

  "It’s just that, well…"

  "Well what?"

  "Nothing." Afsan’s blind face turned toward the crumbling edge of the cliff.

  "No, you had a thought. Please express it."

  Afsan nodded and apparently rallied some inner strength. "It’s just that I always wonder why Drawtood committed those murders."