"All right," said Afsan.
"But we’ve made ourselves, essentially, an all-the-same race, in attitudes and attributes. There’s little difference between a male and a female. And the traits we’ve accentuated through the culling are, in many ways, the worst and most antisocial traits of the male. And we’ve distilled those traits in both genders."
"I’ve never thought about it that way."
"And now, consider this: the Others are, well, less overtly masculine than we are. They’re physically smaller, they have less prominent jaws, and smaller teeth. They’re drably colored compared to us and they have only a weak sense of territoriality."
"So you’re saying they’re more like females?"
"Ah, but if they were like our females, perhaps we’d have no problem facing them. But they aren’t; they don’t have the exaggerated masculinity of our females. And there’s something deep, something dark, within our spirits that can’t stand the sight of what we perceive as lesser males. We’ve exaggerated our own masculinity to the point where we’ve become a threat to anyone that doesn’t meet the same standards of robustness or aggression. I’ve seen plenty of Other corpses now. All the Others appear to be males; even female Others have folds of skin about the throat reminiscent of a dewlap sack."
"Then there’s nothing inherently evil about the Others," said Afsan.
"Nothing at all. The evil is within us. In fact, I’ll suggest that we know that on an instinctive level; that Toroca knew to hide his difference from his fellow Quintaglios because he knew how we might react to one we perceived as not as male as we expect."
"We destroyed every one of the Other ships," Afsan said. "I doubt they’ll dare send more. So what do we do? You tell me we are bred to hate the Others because we see them as lesser versions of ourselves, or — I don’t know — perhaps as something we fear becoming. But if we can’t help how we feel, what do we do? You know the old saying, you can’t change Quintaglio nature."
"Ah, good Afsan, but we must. We’re going to need to do that if we’re to go to the stars."
The ruling room was empty except for Dybo, lying on the throne slab, and Toroca. "I take it you’ve finally got an answer for me?" said the Emperor.
"Yes," said Toroca.
"Well?"
"As you recall, the problem you set for me was to find a way to choose which eggling should survive. Almost every clutch consists of eight eggs; most females produce two or three such clutches in a lifetime. Obviously, to maintain a stable population, only one eggling may be allowed to live from each clutch."
"Yes, yes," said Dybo. "But which one?"
"I’ve given this matter much thought, Emperor. I want you know to that."
"I expected no less, Toroca. Now, what is your answer?"
"My answer, Your Luminance, is this: it doesn’t matter which eggling we choose."
"What?"
"It makes no difference. Or, perhaps said better: to refrain from artificially imposing selection criteria makes for more difference. More variety."
"I don’t understand," said the Emperor.
"It’s simple, really. You know my theory of evolution?"
"Yes, of course. That’s why you were chosen to come up with a way to select which eggling should live. Survival of the fittest!"
Toroca scratched the underside of his neck. "A regrettable phrase, that … Our bloodpriests have been selecting for physical robustness for countless generations. And what has that selection process made us? Territorial beings, savage beings."
"Then we should select based on intelligence," said Dybo.
"Forgive me, Emperor, but that, too, is wrong. Consider Afsan, for instance. A finer mind we’ve never known, but you yourself have teased him for his scrawniness. In a rock slide, he might die, whereas a bigger but dumber fellow might well be able to dig himself out. The point is, Emperor, there is no hard-and-fast criterion for fitness. As the environment changes, so, too, does the list of requirements for survival. And we’re about to change our environment more than ever before, for we are soon to leave this world and seek another. It would be folly to breed for any one particular characteristic, since we don’t know what sort of demands the new environment will put on us. No, good Dybo, what we need is variety, and the best way to ensure that is by selecting which egglings get to live at random." He turned his muzzle so that there could be no doubt that his black eyes were falling on Dybo. "Some will be strong, some brainy, some perhaps neither of those things but nonetheless possessing qualities we might someday need."
Dybo nodded. "At random," he said. "It’s not the sort of answer I expected, Toroca."
"I know, sir. But it is the right one."
"Every eggling would have a one-in-eight chance."
"Yes, Your Luminance. But more than that, there should be no culling of hatchlings. I’ve spoken at length now to Nav-Mokleb — I had no idea of the incredible damage we’ve done to ourselves through that ancient rite. No, instead we must simply select one egg — one egg, not one eggling — from every clutch, and let only that one egg hatch." He paused. "I only hope that in the generations left before our world dies we can regain some of the other qualities we’ll need."
The pain in his chest made it difficult for Afsan to sleep. He’d nod off for a time, only to wake again, the discomfort too much for him. The third or fourth time that happened, he let out a frustrated growl and slapped his palm against the lab table. With his other hand he scratched his chest, trying to relieve the itching caused by his scabbed-over wound.
He lay there and opened his eyes. He’d been doing that more and more lately; since his eyeballs had grown back, there was no pain associated with having the lids open.
Across the room, he saw a faint light.
He saw…
Across the room!
A faint…
No, a trick of his tired mind. He scrunched his inner and outer lids closed, rubbed them with the backs of his hands, and then opened them again.
No mistake! A light … a faint rectangle against the darkness. A window. An open window, its shade left undrawn. Afsan pushed himself off the table and let himself down to the floor. Pain sliced through his side but he ignored it. He hobbled over to the window and gripped its ledge with both hands.
It was the middle of the night — and, better still, it was odd-night, the night most Quintaglios slept, the night Afsan always preferred because the outdoor lamps were doused, letting the heavens blaze forth in all their glory, the phosphorescent band of the great sky river arching overhead. Four moons were visible, but they were all thin crescents, doing little to banish the stars. The night sky, cloudless, pitch black, resplendent, glorious. Just as he’d remembered it. All the nights he’d spent staring up at the sky came back to him: childhood nights, full of wonder and awe. Adolescent nights, full of longing and yearning. Nights as in apprentice, full of study and slowly gleaned understanding.
His tail was fairly vibrating with joy. The pain, unbearable earlier, was now all but forgotten, pushed from his high mind by the magnificent sight. Old friends were beckoning. Why, there was the constellation of the Hunter, which had been called the Prophet in his youth. And, there, arching up from the horizon, Lubal’s hornface Matark. Straddling the ecliptic, the Skull of Katoon.
Afsan thought about shouting out, about waking the others, about declaring to one and all that he could see — he could see! — he could see!
But, no, this was a moment to be savored by himself. The stars tonight were for him and him alone. He leaned back on his tail and drank in more of the spectacle.
It came to him, after some time of enjoying the sight: the reason his low mind had finally relented, had finally given up the fight, had finally allowed him to see. It, too, now knew what Afsan had come to understand on the conscious level.
His time was almost up.
Still, he reveled in the sight, the glorious sight. He watched silently as a meteor made a tiny streak across the firmament.
*32*
They crowded together in the room, their love for Afsan enough to keep the territorial instinct at bay for a short time. Novato was there, the mother to his children, the person with whom he had discovered the truth about the universe. Emperor Dybo was there, too. Afsan’s longtime friend. Huge, vastly old Captain Keenir, who had first introduced Afsan to the far-seer, was also there. And others, as well…
Afsan had eventually gone back to sleep, and when he awoke, it was morning, the brightness, the glorious brightness, stinging his eyes. He called for Dar-Mondark, who immediately summoned Arson’s friends.
Although he could now see, Afsan’s condition was worsening. He’d vomited blood this morning, and the pain in his chest was spreading. He lay flat on his belly, his breath coming out in long ragged hisses. "Dybo?" he said.
The Emperor nodded. "It’s me, Afsan."
"It is good to see you."
Dybo clicked his teeth. "It is good to be seen."
Afsan turned his head slightly. "And Novato — I’d know that face anywhere."
"Hello, Afsan."
"You look…" He paused, as if wondering whether to give voice to his thought. "You look wonderful. Beautiful."
Novato dipped her head. "Thank you."
"And Captain Var-Keenir." Afsan rallied a little strength. "Ah, the times we had aboard the Dasheter!"
"Greetings, eggling," said Keenir, his gravelly voice cracking slightly.
Afsan clicked his teeth. "Don’t you think I’m a bit old to still be called that?"
"Never," said Keenir, a twinkle in his eye.
"And this long-shanked fellow," said Afsan, "is doubtless my good and loyal friend. Cadool, the kilodays have been kind to you."
Cadool bowed deeply.
Afsan was quiet for a moment, but then his tail began to twitch as if he were very, very sad.
"What’s wrong?" said Novato.
Afsan shook his head. "I — I don’t know who the rest of these people are. I should know, but I don’t."
One male stepped slightly closer, and then, ignoring the sharp intakes of breath around him, reached out and briefly clasped Afsan’s shoulder. "I’m Toroca."
Afsan’s voice was breaking. "My son."
"Yes, Father."
"What a fine, handsome Quintaglio you are."
"Thank you."
"I want you to know how very, very proud I am of you."
"I know it, Father. I have always known it."
Afsan turned to the next one, a female who, incredibly, had a horn growing out of her muzzle. "And you are?" he said.
"You mean you can’t tell?"
"Well, I can now: I recognize your voice, Babnol."
"Toroca had never mentioned my, ah, horn?"
Afsan shook his head, and saw that Babnol was pleased.
Afsan’s tail was shaking again, beating back and forth with the strength of his emotions. "It is good of you all to come," he said. "I know I don’t have much time left, but of all the sights I could have seen once more, none means more to me than seeing the faces of my friends … and my family."
There was no point in even trying a comforting lie; Afsan could see the color of their muzzles now. "I’ll miss you, Afsan," said Dybo. "I’ll miss you terribly. You’ll not be forgotten. There will be statues of you in every province."
"To be remembered by my friends is enough," said Afsan, and they saw from his muzzle that the sentiment was sincere.
"You will be remembered by all Quintaglios," said Novato. "You saved us. You saved us all. We’re making enormous strides, Afsan. We have our own flying machines and the tower into space, and we’re studying the projectile weapons salvaged from the Other ships. We will get off this world before it disintegrates. I promise you that."
Afsan was quiet for a moment. "I have a small request," he said, his voice ragged. "Dybo, this would mean more to me than any statue. I know it will be generations hence before our ships leave this world, but when they go to their new home have them take something of me with them. Let something that I have touched be taken to the soil of our new world."
"Your far-seer," said Toroca at once. "You gave me your far-seer kilodays ago. What could be more appropriate than that?"
Afsan clicked his teeth. "Thank you, son."
"I’ll make it happen, Afsan," said Dybo. "Your far-seer will travel to our new home."
Afsan nodded but then his body racked. "I don’t think I have much time left," he said. "I care about you all deeply, but you can’t all stay here until the end. It’s too crowded, too dangerous. Go. Go, knowing you are in my thoughts."
"I want to stay with you," said Novato.
Afsan’s voice was faint. "I’d like that. The rest of you, Dybo, Keenir, Toroca, Babnol — I’ll miss you. Goodbye, my friends."
"Afsan…" said Dybo, his own voice breaking. "Afsan, I — I must know, before you … before you…"
Afsan nodded once. His voice was soft. "I forgive you, my friend. I forgive you for everything."
Dybo bowed deeply. "Thank you."
’Now," said Afsan, "please, all of you — God be with you."
"God be with you," said the Emperor. Keenir and Babnol repeated the phrase. The three of them left, along with Toroca.
"Afsan," said Novato, moving closer than territoriality would normally allow, "don’t be afraid."
"I’m not afraid," he said, his voice wan. "Not exactly. I don’t wish to die, but I’m not afraid."
"I have seen it, Afsan," she said, her voice full of wonder. The other side. What lies beyond. I have seen it."
Afsan tried to lift his head, but couldn’t manage it. "What?"
"At the top of the space tower, I accidentally opened a door that opened right out into space. The air rushed out, and I thought I was going to die. In a way, I did die. I felt myself leaving my body, and traveling down a long tunnel toward a magnificent light." She spread her arms. "Heaven … heaven is peaceful, Afsan. A place without pain, without concerns."
"You saw this when the air ran out?"
"Yes."
"Novato, good Novato…" His voice was gentle. "When a person is drowning or otherwise starved for air, the mind often plays tricks."
"This was not a trick, Afsan. This was real."
"I find that difficult to believe," he said.
She nodded, not offended. "I knew you would. But you of all people should know that the simple idea is often not correct. There is a heaven, Afsan, and it is more wonderful than our sacred scrolls ever said."
Afsan’s tone was neutral. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."
Novato was serene. "And there’s more, Afsan: on the other side, I saw people that I’d known before. Lub-Kaden from my old Pack, our daughter Haldan, others. Do you know what that means, Afsan? Someday, we’ll be together again. And you know what the sacred scrolls say about heaven: in the afterlife, there is no territoriality. That’s why we must hunt in packs, to prepare ourselves for the ongoing camaraderie of the next existence. We’ll be together again, Afsan, you and I. And it will be different. Different and better. We’ll be able to walk side by side. We’ll be able to touch one another at any time." Her face was calm, beautiful. "It will be wonderful."
"I hope you’re right," said Afsan. "My dear, beautiful Novato, I hope you are right." But then his body convulsed. "I — I think it’s time," he said at last.
Novato reached out to him, placing a hand on his arm. "I am right, Afsan. You’ll see."
And then once again for Sal-Afsan, savior of the Quintaglios, everything went dark.
Two kilodays later
The large stone-walled enclosure had once been used to house a blackdeath but it had been extensively modified for its new purpose. A second stone wall had been built around the first. The door in the outer wall faced east; the one in the inner wall faced south. There was no way anyone could accidentally wander inside.
It was late afternoon. Toroca came here every day at this time, going past the warning signs painted on the walls, ent
ering through the eastern door, walking along between the two walls until he reached the entrance onto the field from the south.
The field was two hundred paces in diameter. Most of it was covered by grass, kept short by Pasdo and Kendly, two old shovelmouths who lived inside here. They were tame beasts, as gentle as could be, and the children were crazy about them.
Toroca stood at the entrance, looking in. There were children everywhere in the playground. Nearby, four of them were playing a game with a ball, kicking it back and forth. Farther along, he saw five youngsters intently building structures in a pit of black sand. Over there, two females were chasing each other. The one in pursuit finally closed the gap, and, with an outstretched hand, touched the other girl on her back, then turned around and began running away. The one who’d been touched now took up the pursuit, her turn to try to catch the other one.
Toroca watched in amazement. Such a simple game, he thought, such an obvious game. And yet, no one of his generation had ever played it. But here he’d seen it spontaneously invented time and again.
He caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye — something sailing through the air. A ball. One youngster had thrown it and another had caught it. The one who’d caught it was now running with it. Two others gave hot pursuit, leaping onto his back and propelling him to the ground. Jaws swung open, but only so teeth could clack together, and one of the boys reached out a hand to help the felled player back to his feet.
Toroca beamed. In the center of the field, he saw his sister, Dynax, formerly a healer, formerly of Chu’toolar, who now worked here in this, the new creche. Toroca bowed toward her and she waved back. And there, off in the distance, carrying two youngsters, one on each shoulder, was Spenress, sister of Emperor Dy-Dybo.
Toroca was sorry that only adults such as these — adults who, like these children, had been spared seeing the culling of the bloodpriests — could come in here. The sight of such intimate contact between individuals (even if they were juveniles) could drive most Quintaglios to dagamant. And, of course, there was always the question of…
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