Foreigner qa-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  "Too many pheromones?" she asked in an innocent tone.

  "I’ve — I’ve got to go," said Afsan. Gork, who had been sunning himself nearby, took note of the fact that Afsan had risen and padded over to him, rubbing against his legs. Afsan groped for the beast’s harness. "I’ve got to go," he said again, and with that, he began to walk away.

  An average Quintaglio life span was four years, each of which was eighteen thousand days long. Novato was about to become officially middle-aged, her life half over. And for almost one full year now, she had been wrestling with her emotions.

  She had laid a total of sixteen eggs so far in her life: eight by Afsan, eight by Garios.

  She remembered laying them. For the first clutch, she had gone into the creche in Pack Gelbo, had squatted over the birthing sands, and, one by one, the soft-shelled eggs had come out. Without any instruction, she’d known exactly how to move, taking a sideways step after each egg had been deposited so that they ended up in a circle, their long axes pointing toward an empty space in the center. Passing the eggs had been painful, but there had been a deep satisfaction in knowing that she was contributing to the ongoing development of the Quintaglio race.

  Other clutches of eggs had already been laid there. As she stood at the exit to the chamber, Novato had looked back one final time into the room. If it weren’t for her fresh footprints across the sand leading to her own clutch, she wouldn’t have been able to identify her eggs.

  She’d never expected to see those eggs again. But word soon came, from one no less famous than Var-Keenir himself, that Afsan might be The One foretold by Lubal. The eggs were rescued from the creche (the creche masters, it turned out, kept meticulous records), and Novato and her clutch were taken aboard the Dasheter to Capital City for a rendezvous with Afsan.

  And so it came that all eight members of that clutch got to live, and that Novato knew exactly who they were. It was a bizarre feeling at first, going against everything she’d been taught. According to the eighteenth sacred scroll, children are the children of the Pack, not of any one individual. But these children were her children; there was no question of who their parents were.

  She had known them all: Kelboon and Toroca, Dynax and Drawtood, Yabool and Galpook, Haldan and poor little Helbark.

  Her children.

  Not just the Pack’s.

  Hers.

  Novato had been moved to mate with Afsan when she was just sixteen (and he was thirteen). For two kilodays, she’d wondered what would happen when she became the normal age for reproduction. Would she be moved to mate again?

  The answer, it turned out, was yes.

  By that time, Novato had taken up residence in Capital City, where she was director of the exodus project. And when Novato found herself calling for a mate again, Afsan, now blind, was far away, touring Land with Emperor Dybo, trying to rally support for the exodus.

  And so she had coupled with Den-Garios. He was a fine fellow, a good fellow, a fellow who in all ways was desirable, a fellow who — and still it hurt to contemplate this — was not Afsan.

  By Garios, she’d laid another eight eggs, this time in Capital City’s much larger creche.

  But there had been nothing special about those eggs. Seven of the eight hatchlings were swallowed whole. The only special treatment they got, because Novato was a minister now in Dybo’s government, was that the culling had supposedly been performed personally by Mek-Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest.

  So one hatchling remained.

  But seventeen clutches of eggs had been hatched at approximately the same time.

  That meant there were seventeen possible candidates for being Novato’s son or daughter.

  Seventeen.

  Statistics were easy to obtain. There were nine females and eight males. But specifics about parentage were unavailable. Novato had thought she might be able to find out by using her newfound authority, assuming records had been kept. Dybo had said that she could issue any orders she deemed necessary. But people would want to know why she required the information and, well, she wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that.

  As the kilodays went by, Novato wondered less and less frequently who her ninth child was, although she did find herself keeping track of the seventeen hatchlings. Two of them died in childhood, one of the same kind of fever that had earlier claimed little Helbark. One more was killed on his first hunt, and two eventually left Capital City for other parts of Land. Still, she followed the lives of the thirteen who remained in the Capital with interest.

  But as Novato approached the end of her second year of life, she found the question of who was her unknown child occupying her thoughts more frequently. Was it Retlas? Unlikely; her light coloring was nothing like Novato’s own. Jidha? No, his wide, moon-like face was unlike either Novato’s or Garios’s. Colboom? Perhaps. He was a gifted artist, as was Novato herself, and his long, drawn-out muzzle was much like Garios’s own. But eventually she’d come to realize that it must be Karshirl, a female structural engineer. It wasn’t just that Karshirl’s body shape and general facial features bore a striking resemblance to Novato’s own. More: Karshirl had the same distinctive and very rare mottling of blue freckles on her back and tail as Novato herself had.

  Novato could request the services of just about anyone for the exodus effort. And so, on a whim, she had sent word to Capital City that Karshirl was needed here, in Fra’toolar.

  It was a crazy thing to do. Sure, they could always use another engineer to help fathom the blue pyramid or to try to puzzle out the functions of the various devices removed from the ark. But to have called Karshirl here was madness. Novato could have no special relationship with her.

  Of course not, Novato kept telling herself. Of course not.

  Not unless Karshirl wanted the same thing.

  Madness. The very idea was insane.

  Or was it?

  Novato had to know.

  A private meeting, a quiet chat.

  Today would be the day. She’d waited long enough.

  Today.

  Novato went looking for her daughter.

  The Others were apparently determined to destroy the Dasheter. A veritable wall of wooden sailing ships had appeared on the horizon. The ships were small by Quintaglio standards — the Others didn’t need to build massive vessels, since they didn’t mind being crowded together.

  The Dasheter began to sail away. Captain Keenir called for Toroca.

  "Tell me what they know about us," demanded the captain.

  Toroca scratched his jaw. "Not much, I suppose. I talked mostly about mathematics and science."

  "What about Land itself?"

  "I don’t understand," said Toroca.

  "Land, boy! What did you tell them about Land?"

  "Nothing, really…"

  "Did you tell them how big it is?"

  "What?"

  "These Others live on a tiny group of islands. Land is thousands of times bigger than that. Did you give any indication of that?"

  Toroca was puzzled by the questions. "Not that I can recall. I mean, that was so obvious to me, I don’t think it ever occurred to me to mention it."

  Keenir thumped his tail in delight. "Excellent!" He cupped hands around his muzzle and shouted down the deck. "Ahoy, Biltog! Set course for Capital City — the most straight, most direct course you can manage!"

  Biltog bobbed concession. "Aye! Full speed ahead!"

  "No!" shouted Keenir. "I want sails two and four furled. Don’t let us get out of sight of the Others!"

  Toroca’s tail swished in bewilderment. "What are you doing?"

  "Don’t you see? Obviously, I’m not going to let that flotilla of ships engage us. No, they’re going to have to chase us all the way home. But Land has thousands of kilopaces of shoreline, most of it unsettled and unguarded. If we let the Others simply stumble on Land, they could storm any part of it. But they’ve no reason to think Land is very big, so they won’t deviate from whatever course we set. They’ll foll
ow us straight back."

  "And?"

  "We’ll send word ahead. Dybo will be ready for them. We will destroy every one of their ships."

  "Destroy them? Why?"

  "It’s them or us, lad! Think about it — by our mere existence we pose a threat to them. They’ll want to sink the Dasheter before we can get back home; if no other Quintaglios know about them, they’re safe. Well, by God, there’s no way I’ll let them sink my ship! So their only other option is to try to wipe out all the Quintaglios; they’ve no idea how big Land is — they probably think that armada of ships will be enough to do it."

  "They’ve got those tubes that shoot metal I told you about," said Toroca. "And I’ve counted forty or so ships out there. They might indeed be able to wipe us out. Luring them back to Land might spell the end of our race. Perhaps we should surrender."

  "Surrender, lad? With those sticks that fire metal, they’d kill us all."

  "Perhaps," said Toroca softly, "that would be for the best."

  Keenir looked at his young friend. "What in God’s name are you saying?"

  "‘In God’s name,’" repeated Toroca. "That’s exactly right." He was quiet for a moment, then: "Consider our history, Keenir. Life is not native to this world. Rather, it was transplanted here. Why was that? Well, certainly one possible interpretation is that we were in danger of being killed off wherever it was that we came from."

  Keenir couldn’t see where Toroca was going. "I suppose," he said.

  "And then what happens when we arrive here? At least one of the arks crashed into this world; that’s the blue ship we found buried in Fra’toolar."

  "Yes."

  "And since that time, what has happened? Why, our world is in the process of destroying itself, tearing itself apart."

  "So?"

  "You don’t see it, do you? What happens when overcrowding occurs amongst our own kind."

  "Dagamant," said Keenir. "The territorial frenzy."

  "Exactly. We lose all reason, all restraint, and simply kill and kill and kill until either everyone is dead or the survivors are too exhausted to continue fighting."

  "You paint it in an unfavorable light," said Keenir meekly.

  "And what has happened now that we’ve met other intelligent beings? Why, even when there is no overcrowding, our basest feelings come to the fore and we kill again — kill thinking beings with no more regard than we have for killing dumb animals for food."

  "Make your point."

  "Don’t you see, Keenir? We’re poison. As a race, we’re vicious. We kill our own kind, we kill others. And what’s happening? Why, God keeps trying to snuff us out! On our original home, wherever that was, we were apparently threatened with extinction. The arks that carried us here, rather than being blessed by God, were buffeted in their voyage, with at least one of them falling out of the sky before its cargo of lifeforms could be let loose. God had almost destroyed us once, on our original home world, but a few of our ancestors escaped. God almost destroyed them

  en route, but enough of them survived to give rise to us. And now God shakes the entire world and is about to crumble it into dust, all to prevent the further spread of the poison that we represent."

  "Toroca, I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people: don’t be silly. Even if what you say is true, our own people must be our first priority."

  "Even if, as in this case, we were the original aggressors? Remember, Var-Keenir, it was you who made the first kill."

  Keenir spread his arms. "I couldn’t help myself, Toroca. I was moved to madness."

  Toroca’s tail swished slowly back and forth. "Exactly."

  "Quickly, now," said Mokleb. "Name the five original hunters."

  Afsan looked startled, then: "Lubal, Hoog, Katoon, Belbar, and, uh. Mekt."

  "Thank you. Now, on with our session…"

  It was a typically overcast day in Fra’toolar, the sky gray rather than purple, the sun a vague smudge behind the clouds. Karshirl was sitting on a log on the beach, looking out at the waves lapping against the base of the blue pyramid.

  Novato regarded her daughter from a distance. She was almost exactly one-half Novato’s age and soon would be coming into receptivity for the first time. Karshirl was a lot smaller than Novato, and she was proportioned differently, too. The difference proportions wasn’t a sign that they were unrelated, but rather had to do with the ways in which a Quintaglio body changes in order to support its ever-increasing bulk. Novato had much thicker legs than Karshirl, and whereas the younger female’s tail was a narrow isosceles triangle in cross section, Novato’s was stocky and equilateral. Novato remembered wistfully when her own appearance had been like that.

  She closed the distance between them. "Hello, Karshirl."

  Karshirl rose to her feet. "Hello, Novato. Hahat dan."

  Novato was quiet for several beats, then asked, "How much do you know about me?"

  Karshirl looked surprised by the question. "What everyone knows, I suppose. You invented the far-seer."

  "Yes, I did. But that’s not the only, ah, creation I’m responsible for."

  Karshirl kept her muzzle faced toward Novato, attentive.

  "I’m Toroca’s mother, did you know that?"

  "Yes," said Karshirl. "I’m not much for gossip, but I suppose everybody’s heard the story of your eight children by Afsan."

  "Indeed. But, actually, I have nine children."

  "Oh? Was that clutch of unusual size?"

  "No. The clutch with Afsan was normal. But I had a second clutch by someone else later on. I, ah, had two clutches in my youth."

  "Oh." Karshirl clearly didn’t know what to say.

  "And one individual lives from that second clutch."

  "So one would presume," said Karshirl.

  "How old are you, Karshirl?"

  "Eighteen kilodays."

  "Do you know how old I am?"

  "No."

  "Go ahead, guess. I’m not particularly vain."

  "Thirty-four?"

  "Actually I’m thirty-six."

  "You don’t look it."

  "Thank you. You don’t see what I’m getting at, do you?"

  "No, ma’am, I don’t."

  Novato drew a deep breath, then let it hiss out slowly. "You, Karshirl, are my ninth child."

  Karshirl’s inner eyelids blinked. "I am?"

  "Yes."

  "Fancy that," she said.

  Novato waited for something more. Finally, when she couldn’t take it any longer, she said, "Is that all you’ve got to say?"

  Karshirl was clearly trying to be polite. "Um, well, I guess if I take after you, I’ll age well."

  There was frustration in Novato’s tone: "I’m your mother," she said.

  "Yes, I guess that’s the term, isn’t it?" Karshirl was quiet for a time, then added again, "Fancy that."

  "Don’t you want to ask me questions?" said Novato.

  "Well, as an engineer, I’ve long wondered where you got the inspiration for the far-seer."

  "Not that kind of question. Questions about myself. About you. About us."

  "Questions, ma’am? Nothing comes to mind."

  "I’m your mother," Novato said again as if that said it all.

  Karshirl’s tail swished expansively. "I guess it’s interesting to know. I’m sure some people idly wonder about who their parents were, but I never have myself."

  "Never?"

  "Not really, no."

  Novato sighed, air whistling out between her pointed teeth. "I suppose I should have expected this. Before I left Pack Gelbo, I never knew who my mother was, either. Now that I’ve been gone for twenty kilodays, I wonder about it a lot. I try to recall the females who were eighteen, thirty-six, or fifty-four kilodays older than me, to see if any of them resemble me. But the memories are dim; I keep hoping for an excuse for a trip back to Gelbo. I’d like to see her, whoever she is." She paused. "As I thought you might like to see me."

  "I see you often already, Novato. F
orgive me — I’m not normally this dense, but I don’t seem to be getting the point of all this."

  "We’re a family," said Novato.

  "‘Family,’" repeated Karshirl. "And ’mother.’ I’m sure you’re using these words correctly, although I’ve never heard them applied thus. Oh. I’ve heard of ’The Family,’ of course — Dy-Dybo and his ancestors. And the term ’creche mother’ is sometimes used. But the way you’re using them…"

  Novato leaned on her tail. "Don’t you see? I know my other children."

  "Yes?"

  "Know them in special ways."

  "That’s very strange."

  "I want to know you."

  "You do know me."

  "I mean, I want to know you as my daughter."

  "Now, that’s a word I don’t know at all."

  "Daughter: female child."

  Karshirl spread her hands. "We can’t know each other any better than we already do. You have your territory and I have mine."

  "But there’s so much I could tell you. About what it’s like at ages you haven’t yet reached."

  "I’ve always thought that discovering those things for oneself to part of the joy of growing up."

  "Yes, but you’ll be calling for a mate soon."

  Karshirl nodded. "Probably, although I haven’t felt the stir yet."

  "I can tell you about that."

  Karshirl’s eyelids blinked. "I don’t want to be told about it."

  "I’m your mother," said Novato again.

  Karshirl spread her hands. "I accept that."

  Novato sighed once more. "But that’s all, isn’t it?"

  "What else could there be?"

  "Nothing," said Novato, growing angry. "Nothing at all."

  Karshirl said, "I’m sorry if I’ve upset you somehow."

  "Just go," said Novato. "Go away. Leave me alone."

  Karshirl turned around and walked down the beach, her tail swishing in open bewilderment.

  *16*

  Wingfinger fanciers had long been thrilled by the ability of certain of the flying reptiles to find their way home no matter how far away one took them. Over time, using such wingfingers to carry messages had become common.

  The Dasheter originally had two large homing wingfingers in its cargo holds, swooping over the wooden crates. One