Foreigner qa-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  A whole new approach.

  The lifeboat continued its ascent.

  *17*

  "Angle the sails!" shouted Keenir. "Slow the ship!"

  Crewmembers ran to do the captain’s bidding. Toroca was up in the Dasheter’s lookout’s bucket, the far-seer Afsan had given him in his hands. He scanned the waters to the stern. There still seemed to be some forty ships in pursuit. By letting them approach more closely, Toroca and Keenir hoped to be able to get a count of how many Others might be aboard each of them. It took a while for the ships to draw visibly nearer. There, on that ship — decks crawling with Others. And on that one, a line of perhaps fifty Others leaning against the ship’s wooden gunwale. And on the lead ship, Others furiously scrambling to one side and struggling now with a piece of heavy equipment.

  As he scanned ship after ship, Toroca’s heart leapt as he saw one Other who looked a bit like Jawn.

  Suddenly, thunder split the air. The view in Toroca’s eyepiece shook wildly. The mast tipped way over. Toroca was slammed against the sides of the lookout’s bucket. He lowered the far-seer.

  Another thunderclap. Smoke and flame erupted from a large black cylinder on the foredeck of the lead Other ship. For an instant, Toroca saw something large flying — flying! — through the air, then the water just astern of the Dasheter went up in a great splash. Something round and heavy had fallen short of hitting the ship by a matter of paces.

  Keenir’s gravelly shout, from below: "Full speed! Increase the gap!"

  Footsteps pounding on the decks.

  The snap of the two unfurled leather sails.

  Another explosion from the tube on the lead ship, but this time the object — something round — smashed into the waves perhaps twenty paces astern. Toroca carefully placed the far-seer in its padded shoulder bag and made his way down the web of ropes to the deck below. Keenir was waiting.

  "What was that?" shouted the captain.

  Toroca, still rattled, held on to the mast for support. "They’re like those handheld fire tubes I told you about, but much bigger…"

  "Did you see the smoke?"

  Toroca nodded. "Thick and dark, like from the blackpowder we use for rock blasting. But they … they channel the force of the explosion, and use it to hurtle metal balls."

  "Aye. If they’d connected, the Dasheter would have been halfway to the bottom by now. We’ll have to be careful not to let them get that close again."

  "Eventually," said Toroca, "they’ll be close to Land itself. Are you sure we’re not setting up our own people for slaughter?"

  "There will be a slaughter," said Keenir, "but not of Quintaglios."

  "I wish," said Toroca, his voice barely audible above the snapping of the sails, "that there didn’t have to be any slaughter at all." He took his leave of Keenir and went back to his lab to put the far-seer safely away.

  As he opened the door, he saw cracked eggshells.

  Had the ship been rocked that badly? Were the eggs broken?

  And then he saw the little yellow head of a baby Other who had tumbled out onto the leather blankets the eggs were resting on. A second egg had a hole in it, and Toroca could see a little birthing horn occasionally poking through. The third egg hadn’t cracked yet, but it was rocking back and forth.

  Toroca crouched down beside the blankets and watched, his eyes wide in wonder.

  It was pouring in Capital City. All trace of purple was gone from the leaden sky. Fat drops pounded the ground, and the sun, normally a brilliant point in the heavens, was completely invisible behind the clouds. Mokleb and Afsan held their session today in Afsan’s office, the sound of driving rain punctuated by cracks of thunder and jagged bolts of lightning visible through the windows.

  "When we first started our sessions, you told me you’d been having bad dreams for some time," said Mokleb, who was lying on the visitor’s dayslab, located as far across the room as possible from Afsan’s own. It was by the window; a cold breeze kept Mokleb’s pheromones from washing over him. He doubtless could smell the ozone in the air, but would catch only an occasional whiff of her. "Can you be more precise about when the bad dreams began?"

  Afsan was prone on his own dayslab, which was angled over the worktable. His tail, sticking up in the air, moved slowly back and forth. "I’m not sure," he said. "They’ve gotten more frequent as time has passed. I suppose the first bad dream was two kilodays ago. But it was so long before the second that I’d assumed the first was an isolated event."

  Mokleb examined Afsan’s office. It was the kind of place one might expect a blind person to have: the walls were free of art, there weren’t enough oil lamps to properly illuminate the room, and there were no lamps at all over the worktable, which was devoid of writing material and had no ink or solvent pots in the little wells designed for them. Two brass figuring rods with raised numerals sat on the marble desktop.

  "And what significant things," said Mokleb, "were happening in your life two kilodays ago?"

  Afsan clicked his teeth. "It’d be a shorter list to tell you what wasn’t happening then." He rubbed the underside of his throat. "Let’s see. There were the murders, of course."

  "The murders committed by your son Drawtood."

  "Yes. Certainly they were dominant in my thoughts."

  "What else?"

  "Well, of course, everyone was on edge: the bloodpriests had been in disrepute for some time by then."

  "They were shunned because they’d not dispatched seven of the eight imperial egglings."

  "That’s right. People felt it unfair that The Family didn’t have to undergo the culling of the bloodpriests, when all other clutches of eggs were subjected to it. But banishing the bloodpriests caused the population to swell enormously."

  "And how did that affect you?"

  "Well," said Afsan slowly, "I went into dagamant for the second time in my life."

  "The second time? You’d felt the territorial madness once before?"

  "Yes. Aboard the Dasheter during my pilgrimage voyage."

  "We shall explore that later. What else was happening two kilodays ago?"

  "The challenge, of course."

  "Challenge?"

  "You know: by Governor Rodlox of Edz’toolar. The challenge c Dybo’s leadership."

  "Ah. yes. You had a role in that?"

  "Yes. In fact, I suggested the way to resolve the challenge."

  "Indeed?"

  "Yes. Secretly, all eight hatchlings from Empress Len-Lends’s of eggs had been allowed to live. Seven of the hatchlings apprentice provincial governors, and the eighth was Dybo. Dybo became Emperor upon the death of his mother."

  "I remember that," said Mokleb. "Rodlox claimed that Dybo, who he thought was the weakest child, had been put on the throne as part of a plot to have a malleable emperor, and that he, Rodlox, was the strongest, and therefore the rightful ruler."

  "Exactly. I simply suggested the logical test: that Dybo, Rodlox, and their siblings replay the culling of the bloodpriest, with an appropriately scaled-up carnivore acting in the role of the priest."

  "Ah, I remember that, too. I wasn’t living in Capital City then, but the newsriders were full of the story. A blackdeath was used, no?"

  "Yes."

  "And seven members of The Family died in that replaying."

  Afsan raised a hand. "Only six. Spenress from Chu’toolar was still alive when Dybo finally forced the blackdeath to retreat; she lives here in the Capital now."

  "Still, six deaths…"

  Afsan’s tone was defensive. "There are many who said that only one of them should have been alive in the first place."

  "Of course," said Mokleb. "Of course." Then, a moment later, "Nonetheless … six deaths." She tilted her head to one side and looked at Afsan. His forehead was high, his muzzle strong and firm. Perhaps this was it… "Do you," she said casually, "feel guilt over the death of those six people?"

  A lightning bolt illuminated the room, throwing everything into stark relief. Mokleb felt her
heart skip, but Afsan, of course, did not react at all. "It’s an interesting question. Certainly, I dislike seeing anyone die — even someone as nasty as Rodlox." And then the thunderclap came, loud and long, shaking the adobe walls of the building. Afsan waited for the reverberations to fade before he spoke again. "But it was necessary for the good of our people that both Dybo’s authority and the credibility of the bloodpriests be restored."

  Mokleb shook her head. She felt she was getting closer, but still, maddeningly, the answer was out of reach.

  At first Novato thought she’d been imagining it, thought it had been a by-product of her excitement.

  But it wasn’t. It was really happening.

  She stood firmly on the lifeboat’s transparent floor and dropped a small metal tool she was holding in her left hand.

  It fell.

  But it fell slowly.

  A day and a half had elapsed since her journey up the tower began. If she was right about the lifeboat’s speed, she was now some two thousand paces above the ground, a distance equal to one-third of the east-west length of Land.

  There could be no doubt. The apparent gravity was less. Much less. The tool had seemed to fall with only half its normal speed. She stooped over and picked it up. It felt light in her hand.

  Lower gravity, thought Novato. Incredible.

  The tower continued up.

  Novato decided she liked this lightness. It made her feel kilodays younger.

  *18*

  The eggling Others presented a problem.

  Traditionally, shortly after a clutch of Quintaglio babies had opened their eyes, a bloodpriest would be summoned to visit the creche. The priest would meditate for daytenths, drink a sacred potion, don the purple halpataars robe, and enter the creche chamber. And then, by the flickering light of the heating fires, he’d let loose a loud roar and break into a run, sending the hatchlings scurrying to get away. One by one, he’d pounce on the egglings, slurping them down his gullet, devouring them until only one, the fastest, was left.

  But in kiloday 7126, the bloodpriests had been banished from most Packs for collusion in allowing The Family’s hatchlings to forego the culling. The bloodpriests had eventually been reinstated, but Dybo had decreed that a new selection criterion — something other than physical strength — would be used in future. Toroca, originator of the theory of evolution, was charged with finding an appropriate criterion.

  Toroca hadn’t done that yet, arguing that such a monumental change required considerable thought, and so, at least temporarily, the bloodpriests were culling hatchlings in the traditional way again.

  And now Toroca had three baby Others in his care.

  In a Quintaglio clutch, only one would be allowed to live. Should the same hold true for these Others? Toroca had seen what had happened when the bloodpriests had been banished from their Packs, when, for a time, every hatchling had been allowed to live. The population had swollen, youngsters were underfoot everywhere, and mass dagamant had gripped all of Land.

  The people had been willing to accept the bloodpriests so long as they thought every clutch was subjected to their culling. But once an exception had been found, the people rose up in anger, banishing or even killing the halpataars.

  And now into their midst had come a special clutch. Granted, there were only three hatchlings in it instead of the Quintaglio norm of eight. Still…

  Toroca leaned on his tail, deep in thought. To risk once again to be seen playing favorites, to be killing seven out of every eight babies from Quintaglio clutches, but to let all of these offspring live … The public would be incensed, especially so soon after the scandal involving Dybo and his brothers and sisters.

  And to make matters worse, Toroca was, in effect, leader of the bloodpriests until such time as he had developed a new culling criterion. For what amounted to the head bloodpriest to be seen again to be flouting the customs of the people…

  And yet, these were not Quintaglio hatchlings. Their mother had been killed by a Quintaglio, the eggs had been taken, albeit accidentally, from their native land. Surely a dispensation could be made in this case, surely all three could be allowed to live…

  Surely…

  No.

  The risk was too great. Quintaglio population controls had to be kept in place, and that meant nothing could be allowed to discredit the bloodpriests.

  Toroca hated himself for what he did next, but he had no choice. At least, since the babies were only a few daytenths old, their eyes weren’t yet open; Quintaglio egglings opened their eyes about a day after leaving their shells.

  Toroca swallowed one of the hatchlings, the squirming form moving down his gullet. It took a while for him to regain his nerve, but when he did he swallowed a second hatchling, leaving only one alive.

  Afsan and Mokleb’s next session was held at Rockscape. The ground had not completely dried from the downpour of two days ago. Mokleb’s feet were covered with mud and her legs were soaked after making her way through tall grasses to the rock that she used, downwind of Afsan’s rock.

  "You mentioned in our last session," she said, "that the first time you’d experienced dagamant was kilodays ago, aboard the Dasheter."

  "That’s right," said Afsan, stretching out on his boulder. "We were sailing on beyond the Face of God, something no ship had ever done before. Emperor Dybo — he was Prince Dybo back then — and I were sunning ourselves on deck when a sailor named Nor-Gampar came charging between us, in full bloodlust. Bobbing up and down from the waist, glazed eyes, claws exposed — the whole thing."

  "You were with Dybo, you say?"

  "Yes."

  "But it was you who killed this Gampar?"

  "Yes."

  "So you saved Dybo’s life."

  "I never thought about it that way, but, yes, I suppose I did."

  "Dybo did not repay you well."

  A few moments of quiet. "No, he did not."

  "But you killed Gampar so that the prince could live."

  "Yes."

  "Surely this went beyond simple territoriality," said Mokleb. "You weren’t just responding to the fact that Gampar was threatening you and Dybo. There was a larger issue at stake: the need to know. You’d convinced Captain Keenir to sail around the world, something no one had ever done. Gampar objected to that."

  "Yes."

  "He stood in the way of that knowledge."

  "Yes."

  "He stood in the way of a better life for Quintaglios."

  "Yes."

  "And, well, if a few people die now and then for the good of society as a whole, that’s all right, isn’t it?"

  "No."

  "Strides are never made without sacrifices. People will always die so others can live better lives."

  "No."

  "Don’t you believe that?"

  "No. No, there should be alternatives. Death shouldn’t be necessary."

  "Sometimes it is," said Mokleb.

  "Not like that," said Afsan. "Not because of bloody instinct. Living our lives should not require killing others of our own kind."

  "But it does," said Mokleb.

  "But it shouldn’t," said Afsan. "By the very Egg of God, Mokleb, it shouldn’t!"

  On the fifth day after Novato had left, the land in Fra’toolar began to shake. Wingfingers took flight, and the calls of animals split the air. Tails flying behind them, Garios and Karshirl ran along the heaving sands. They were a good distance south of the blue pyramid, but the base of a cliff was the last place one wanted to be during a landquake. Farther along, though, the cliff face gave way to more gentle slopes. On their right, layers of rock were shattering, sending a rain of fragments down onto them. On their left — Garios looked out at the waters and his muzzle dropped open in a silent scream. A wall of water was lifting from the waves. Garios tried to run faster, the ground shifting beneath his feet.

  The giant wave was barreling in. Garios risked climbing the rocky slope. He panted out the words of a prayer. In places, debris showered down heav
ily, but he found a pathway up that was shielded by an overhanging rock layer. Garios had lost track of Karshirl. He hoped she was finding a comparatively safe hiding place, too.

  A slab of rock tumbled toward Garios, bouncing sideways under the overhanging ledge. He didn’t get his right leg out of the way in time. The impact was excruciating.

  Garios looked out again and screamed in terror. The incoming wall of water was higher — much higher — than the height he’d climbed to. It would…

  He was slammed against the cliff by the wave’s impact. Agony sliced through his battered leg. He felt as though his abdomen was tearing open, forced against sharp rocks.

  The water was bitterly cold, as if it had welled up from far below the surface. Submerged, Garios kept his eyes tightly shut. His lungs were bursting, desperate for air. Somehow he managed to hold on to the rocks. A boulder bounced against his back and tail, but its movements were slowed enough by the churning water to keep it from doing much damage.

  Garios’s lungs ached unbearably. Darkness was gripping him. His consciousness began slipping away…

  But then the wave subsided. His maw gaped wide, taking in gulps of air as if they were bolts torn from a carcass. The

  ground had stopped shaking, at least for now. The beach below was covered with waterweeds deposited by the wave. Wet sand had been lifted up onto the rocky slope, partially covering it. A litter of boulders overlay the ground below.

  Garios scanned the beach. There was no sign of Karshirl.

  His heart sank. Her body must have been washed out with the receding wave.

  Garios’s right leg was battered, and he had a shallow gash diagonally across his belly. Maneuvering carefully, so as not to lose his precarious footing, he turned around and looked back up the beach, toward the cliff face and the sky tower…

  …which was…

  My God!

  Vibrating.

  Oscillating.

  Like a plucked string. Back and forth.

  What if it fell down? What if the tower collapsed?

  God protect us!

  God protect Novato!