Fossil Hunter

by Robert J. Sawyer

He moved over to Spalton, still lying on his side, the vessels in his arm having mostly sealed, but some blood still seeping out. His breathing was shallow but even, the respiration of unconsciousness, not the frantic gulping of air that comes with the territorial madness of dagamant.

  “How?” said Delplas again, still too weak to get up. “How did you avoid getting drawn into the territorial battle? How could you touch me without your claws coming out?”

  Toroca bent over to minister to Spalton’s wounds. He’d kept it a secret this long; he had no intention of offering an explanation now.

  Chapter 2

  Musings of The Watcher

  Universes come and go.

  I am the sole survivor of the previous cycle of creation, of the universe that existed prior to this one. My body had ceased to have material substance countless millennia before the end of the old universe, but with forethought and determination and not a small amount of luck my consciousness managed to survive reasonably intact through that universe’s contraction into a cosmic egg and the subsequent Big Bang that gave rise to this latest iteration of everything.

  It had been an impudent move, for who has the right to outlast the universe? And my impudence, apparently, was to be punished.

  I thought I had ended up in hell.

  The universe I had evolved in was quite unlike this new one. Mine had teemed with life. Physical laws were different, making almost every world fecund. Innumerable biologies and countless sentient forms arose.

  But this current universe is brutally harsh. I found myself apparently alone in it. I’d expected that, of course, at first. After all, life surely would take some time to arise. But the universe expanded and cooled and galaxies formed and spun through dozens of rotation, and still no life emerged.

  I spread myself thin, examining billions of galaxies, scanning each star for planets. On those rare occasions that I did find planets, I scrutinized each for signs of life, or even hints that life might someday develop.

  Nothing.

  For eighty percent of the present age of this universe I looked and looked and looked, disappointed at every turn.

  Hell, indeed. I thought perhaps I would go mad; think perhaps that I did.

  But then, at long, long last, in a mid-sized spiral galaxy, on the inner edge of one arm, I found a remarkable yellow star. At that time, it had a cometary halo, an asteroid belt, and eight planets—although it looked as though the outermost of these would eventually lose its large moon to a wildly eccentric orbit of its own.

  The third planet was just the right distance from its sun to have substantial amounts of liquid water on its surface. And it had a giant moon—indeed, the pair was a freak double world. Tides from that moon pulled water on and off coastal clays, alternately exposing them to and shielding them from the sun’s radiation.

  And from these, and a thousand other factors that had come together in just the right way, life had arisen.

  A Crucible—of all the worlds in all the galaxies in this vast and infertile cycle of creation, I had found a single Crucible of life.

  It soon became apparent that the Crucible was destined to be a battleground. Many creatures would arise, but only a few would survive. This was as much a world of death as of life.

  At the outset, it was clear that amino acids would form the basis for biology here. But amino acids come in two orientations, left-handed and right-handed. Separate forms of life—true self-replicating strains—began using each orientation, but it was soon obvious that only the left-handed ones would survive.

  All the universe except this one orb was vacant. I couldn’t let one of the two life-paths be snuffed out so early on. I had to find a way to save the right-handed forms, to…to…to transplant them somewhere else.

  But how? I had an intellect that could span the galaxies, but I had no way to exert physical force. Unless—unless I adopted a body for myself.

  The universe was permeated by dark matter, indeed, such matter comprised most of its bulk. Its presence was what guaranteed that this universe, like those before it, would eventually stop expanding and contract down, down, down into a primordial atom from which the next cycle would burst forth.

  Dark matter is everywhere, both in intergalactic space and wending its way through the galaxies themselves. It made the ideal medium for one such as me. I joined with dense streamers of it that stretched through space near the Crucible’s sun. The union gave me mass and, therefore, a subtle but inexorable gravitational influence.

  The Crucible’s solar system was still young. Although most of the planetesimals had been swept up already by the orbiting worlds, enough debris still littered the system to make impacts commonplace. When a piece of stone or metal slammed into the Crucible, it was not unusual for hunks of the Crucible planet itself to be tossed up with sufficient force to reach escape velocity.

  At this early stage of development, life on the Crucible was little more than hardy chemicals and self-replicating crystals of acid. From those pieces of the planet that had been thrown into space, I selected the ones containing a preponderance of the right-handed acid forms. Exerting my gravitational influence, I sent them on a long, gentle voyage to another star where a planet awaited covered with oceans of sterile water. Only a small fraction of the amino acids would survive the long voyage—mostly those buried deep within the ejecta—but it would be enough, I hoped, to establish a second living world, this one for right-handed amino forms.

  The process had begun. This universe may have only given rise to life in one place, but I would see to it that as much of the potential of that life would be realized across as many worlds as possible.

  Chapter 3

  Fra’toolar

  Toroca, who had recently become leader of the Geological Survey of Land at the young age of sixteen kilodays, knew he was different.

  In part, it was because he actually knew who his parents were, something almost no other Quintaglio did. Toroca’s father was the blind sage Sal-Afsan. Seventeen kilodays ago, Afsan had sailed around the world aboard the mighty vessel Dasheter, had gazed upon what was called the Face of God, and had determined that it was, in fact, not the countenance of the creator at all, but rather the giant banded planet around which the tiny moon they lived on orbited.

  Toroca’s mother, equally renowned, was Wab-Novato, inventor of the far-seer which had aided Afsan in his research. Novato and Afsan together had taken the truth about the Face of God one step further, determining that their world orbited much too closely to the Face to be stable, and that it would disintegrate in only a few hundred kilodays into a ring of rubble, just like those around the neighboring planets of Kevpel and Bripel. Shortly after Toroca had hatched, Emperor Dybo had named Novato director of the exodus project: the all-consuming effort to get the Quintaglio people off their world prior to its destruction.

  Yes, knowing who his parents were was a difference, but it wasn’t the major one.

  Toroca also had brothers and sisters. Since the dawn of time, the bloodpriests had devoured seven out of every eight hatchlings, leaving only the fastest one alive. But Toroca’s father, Afsan, had been taken to be The One foretold by Lubal—the hunter who would lead the Quintaglios on the greatest hunt of all. And the bloodpriests, an order closely allied with the Lubalites, made a special dispensation for the children of The One, allowing all eight of them to live.

  Knowing his parents; knowing his siblings: these indeed made Toroca different.

  But beyond that, he was different in a more fundamental way, different to the core of his being.

  A crowded street. A room with ten or more people in it. A ship full of other travelers. None of it bothered him. If another Quintaglio accidentally stepped on his tail, Toroca’s claws remained sheathed. When from his vantage point high up the cliffs of Fra’toolar he’d seen Delplas and Spalton bobbing up and down from the waist on the verge of dagamant, Toroca had felt no need to reply in kind, had no difficulty turning away from the sight as he scaled his way down th
e cliff. Indeed, he’d been able to rush into the battle and literally pull them apart, all the while keeping his claws sheathed, his rationality at the fore.

  Toroca seemed to lack the instinct for territoriality, lack the urge that drove other Quintaglios apart.

  He’d never told anyone. Never said a word. It was liberating, this difference. Empowering.

  And more than just a little bit frightening.

  Toroca had left the other surveyors back at the great cliffs on the storm-swept coast, looking for any fossils at all from below the Bookmark layer, and cataloging the myriad forms they found above it. Rather than talk at length about how he’d managed to intervene rationally in the territorial battle between Delplas and Spalton, he’d simply left, hiking north toward the port town of Otok. This trip had been planned for some time, after all, and it afforded an ideal excuse to avoid conversation on this topic. It was a three-day hike into the town, where he was to rendezvous with Dak-Forgool, an eminent geologist from Arj’toolar newly assigned to the Geological Survey.

  Otok was a pleasant enough little town. It consisted mostly of amorphous adobe buildings, the kind easily repairable after a landquake. The streets were simply dirt, pounded down by the caravans of hornfaces. The town square, the only part paved with cobblestones, contained only two statues: there was one of God, Her arms ending in stumps below Her shoulders, and another of Dy-Dybo, the Emperor, who in naked white marble looked even rounder and fatter than he did in the flesh.

  Toroca had arranged to meet this Forgool at the foot of Dybo’s statue. He was looking forward to the encounter; Forgool had written much of value about the erosion of uprocks into downrocks. Toroca glanced at the sun, tiny, blazingly white, sliding down the purple bowl of the sky. It looked to be about the fourth daytenth, but—

  Bells from the Hall of Worship. One. Two. Three. Four. Yes, Toroca was bang on time. But where was Forgool?

  Toroca was wearing his geologist’s sash—he’d brought along needle and gut ties and had sewn the two ripped pockets during a break in his long hike. A geologist’s sash was quite distinctive, what with its twelve pockets running down its length. Forgool should recognize it immediately, and therefore have no trouble spotting Toroca, standing now in the considerable shade afforded by the statue of Dybo.

  Toroca scanned the square. It was almost empty, of course. He saw one old Quintaglio crossing from the right, his tail dragging across the stones. A younger Quintaglio approaching from the left changed course to give the oldster wide clearance, and she nodded territorial concession at him as she did so.

  Neither of them seemed the least bit interested in Toroca, though. He watched as a large wingfinger alighted on Dybo’s statue. The flyer’s reptilian head looked down at Toroca briefly, then it pushed off and glided away, its furry white coat shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, the pointed crest off the back of its head acting as a rudder to help it steer in flight. Toroca turned back and looked around the square again.

  Ah, someone was coming.

  But it wasn’t Forgool. It couldn’t be.

  Forgool was said to be around thirty kilodays old, almost twice Toroca’s own age. But this person was no bigger than Toroca himself. Still, whoever it was was crossing the square with purposeful strides, heading straight for Toroca.

  As the Quintaglio came closer, Toroca took note of two features simultaneously.

  One was startling only in that it again diverged from what he’d been expecting. Forgool was a male, but this person was a female: the front of her neck lacked the loose folds of a dewlap sack.

  But the second feature would have been startling under any circumstances. She had a horn growing out of her muzzle. Toroca’s inner eyelids batted across his black orbs. He’d never seen the like before on an adult.

  When she got within about twenty paces, the female stopped. “Permission to enter your territory?” she said, her voice a bit anxious.

  “Hahat dan,” said Toroca, with a little bow of concession.

  “You are Kee-Toroca, leader of the Geological Survey?”

  Toroca nodded.

  “I know you were expecting Dak-Forgool,” she said. “I am from his Pack, Pack Vando. It is my sad duty to report to you that Forgool is dead. He succumbed to a fever.”

  Toroca dipped his muzzle. “I’m very sorry. I’d always wanted to meet him. My condolences to your Pack.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a silence between them for several moments, then Toroca said, “I am sorry to hear this, and I thank you for bringing me word—I know it was a long journey for you. But I must head back and join my survey team now. It is too bad. We could have used another geologist.” Toroca bowed and began to move away.

  “Wait,” said the female. “Take me with you.”

  Toroca leaned back on his tail. “What?”

  “Take me with you. I’ve come in Forgool’s place.”

  “Were you his apprentice?”

  The female looked at the cobblestones. “No.”

  “Who did you study under?”

  “Hoo-Tendron.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. Is he a geologist?”

  “No. Ah, he’s, um, a merchant.”

  “A merchant?”

  “Yes, with my Pack of Vando. But he trades in gemstones and fossils, and I’ve been his apprentice for many kilodays.”

  “The Geological Survey is a scientific undertaking. We have no need of traders.”

  “Nor do I wish to be a trader anymore.” She raised a hand. “It’s true I’ve had no formal training in geology, but I’ve dealt with fossils and gems for most of my life. Our Pack roams along the Passalat sandstones.” The Passalats were the finest-grained stones in all of Land, known for their magnificent fossils. “I’ve excavated every kind of fossil, even delicate ones like those strange winged things that aren’t wingfingers.”

  “Birds?” said Toroca. “You’ve personally found bird fossils?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, impressed. “They’re the rarest find of all. No one knows exactly what birds were.”

  “Indeed,” said the female.

  “But you know no geology?” said Toroca.

  “I know what I’ve taught myself. And I can read, Toroca—I’m one of the very few from my Pack that can make that claim. I’m willing to learn, but I’ve already got skills that your project can use.”

  Toroca considered. At the very least, they could use another pair of hands. “What’s your name?”

  “Babnol. Wab-Babnol.”

  Toroca bowed. “I cast a shadow in your presence, Babnol. You have the same praenomen as—” He stopped himself before he said my mother. “As a good friend of mine, Wab-Novato.”

  But Babnol apparently already knew the story. “She’s your mother, isn’t she? A great Quintaglio.”

  Toroca nodded. “That she is.” He looked up at the purple sky. “We work in rough conditions, Babnol. And we’re about to head south—”

  “I’ve heard all about it,” she said. “Forgool was so looking forward to it. A voyage to the south pole!”

  “The work is not at all glamorous. You’ll be expected to labor hard, to do repetitive and meticulous tasks.”

  “I’m prepared for all of that, good Toroca. Please: there’s nothing for me in Pack Vando. I know you need someone, and it will take many dekadays for any other geologist to get here. Let me join your team. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  Toroca considered, looking her up and down. She was in fine physical shape: well muscled; her belly so light green as to be almost yellow, her shoulders and arms a darker shade freckled with brown; her eyes, solid black, wide and intelligent.

  And the horn.

  Bizarre. Bright in the sunlight.

  She held her head high, almost haughtily, Toroca thought, but she didn’t seem haughty in any other part of her manner. Indeed, she seemed to have a commendable enthusiasm.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Welcome to the Geological
Survey of Land.”

  She bowed deep concession. “Thank you, Toroca. Thank you very much. You won’t be sorry, I promise you.”

  “It’s a three-day hike down to where the rest of the survey team is working. We should get going. We’ve found some fascinating downrock beds there. They present quite a puzzle.”

  “A puzzle?” said Babnol with glee. “I love puzzles.”

  Toroca clicked his teeth. “I have a feeling this is going to work out very well,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  Chapter 4

  Capital City: Dybo’s Palace

  Time was a funny thing, thought Emperor Dy-Dybo, resting his enormous belly on the ruling slab in his rebuilt palace in Capital City. His childhood had seemed as though it would never end. As a member of The Family—the direct descendants of the Prophet Larsk, who had been first to gaze upon the Face of God—Dybo had lived a life of leisure, while his mother, Len-Lends, had ruled with an iron hand.

  But then, when Dybo was just twelve kilodays old, all of that had come to an end. A landquake, a collapsing roof, his mother dead, and suddenly he was lying on the ruling slab himself, he, no longer Dybo, but now Dy-Dybo, the Emperor of all the Fifty Packs and every one of the eight provinces.

  Dybo was twenty-eight kilodays old—even to a pessimist, which Dybo most assuredly was not, still hardly even early middle age. And yet he was feeling old. He looked across the ruling room at the white marble statue of his mother, Lends, with her stern visage. Government had always moved in generations. His mother, in addition to being Empress, was also governor of Capital province, and she had been about the same age as the governors of the other provinces. Throughout his adolescence, while Dybo was being groomed for the Emperorship, seven other children about his age were likewise serving as apprentice governors in Jam’toolar, Fra’toolar, Arj’toolar, Chu’toolar, Mar’toolar, Edz’toolar, and Kev’toolar.

  But because of Lends’s early death, Dybo had ascended ahead of his time. He’d always thought of himself as a young Emperor, because no one else of his generation had yet become a governor.