Fossil Hunter qa-2

by Robert J. Sawyer

  "You must receive justice."

  "You, of all people, shouldn’t believe in justice. You were blinded by imperial order! Was that justice?"

  Afsan’s turn to be silent for a time. "No."

  "I won’t submit to them."

  "You must. You must come with me."

  "You can’t stop me."

  A hard edge came into Afsan’s tone. "Yes, I can, Drawtood. If need be. You are alive because sixteen kilodays ago, they mistook me for The One. I was the greatest hunter of modern times. You can’t get past me."

  "You are blind."

  "I hear your breathing, Drawtood. I can smell you. I know exactly where you are standing, exactly what you are doing. You don’t have a chance against me here in the dark."

  "You’re blind…"

  "Not a chance."

  Silence, save for the wind.

  "I don’t want to hurt you, Afsan."

  "You have hurt me already. You’ve killed two of my children."

  "They had to die."

  "And now you must face the consequences of your actions."

  Another lengthy quiet. "What will they do to me?"

  "There are no laws governing murder, and so no modern penalties are prescribed. But there were penalties in ancient times for taking another’s life outside of dagamant." A pause. "I will urge compassion," Afsan said at last.

  "Compassion," repeated Drawtood. "Have I no alternatives?"

  "You tell me."

  "I could take my own life."

  "I would be honor-bound to try to stop you."

  "If you knew what I was doing."

  "Yes. If I knew."

  "But if I were to kill myself quietly, while we were talking…"

  "I might not realize it until too late."

  "How does one kill oneself quietly?"

  "Poison might be effective."

  "I have none."

  "No, of course not. On another matter, there are some documents in my carrying case that you might find interesting. I’ve left it by the doorway. Can you see it?"

  "It’s very dark."

  "Tell me about it," said Afsan, but there was no clicking of teeth.

  "Yes," said Drawtood, "I see it."

  "Please go get them."

  Ticking claws. "Which compartment are they in?"

  "The main one. Oh, but be careful. There’s a vial of haltardark liquid in there, too. It’s a cleaning compound for far-seer lenses. Your mother asked me to get some for her; it’s quite deadly. You’d do well not to touch it."

  A long silence. "Yes," said Drawtood. Silence again. Then: "The vial has a symbol on it. It’s hard to see in this light … a drop shape, and the outline of some animal lying on its side."

  "That’s the chemist’s symbol for poison."

  "I didn’t know that."

  "You do now."

  "Afsan … ?"

  "Yes."

  "I’m sorry."

  "Yes."

  And that was followed by the longest silence of all.

  *43*

  Musings of The Watcher

  I watched it happen, helpless to intervene.

  Everything had gone flawlessly so far. The final Jijaki ark, the Ditikali-ot, had traversed the light-years to the target without incident. It had been timed to arrive a few Crucible centuries after the previous arks, bringing fauna specimens that would do better after the rest of the animals had been established.

  Sliding down the star’s gravity well had gone as planned, and a double-loop maneuver braked the craft first by swinging around the gas-giant fifth planet, then around the target moon. The Ditikali-ot settled into a stationary orbit around the moon, holding position directly above the great watery rift that separated the two landmasses, landmasses that would eventually jam together into one as convective heat drove their respective plates closer and closer.

  The Ditikali-ot consisted of a habitat module made of super-strong blue kiit held by a metal superstructure between the funnel-shaped ramscoop at one end and the fusion exhaust cone at the other. Restraining clips retracted, allowing the habitat to separate from the stardrive portion of the ship. The precious cargo from the Crucible, and the entire Jijaki crew — the last survivors of that race, now that war and old age had taken all their kin — began to enter the atmosphere.

  Everything went fine until the explosion. The habitat careened wildly, spinning around its long axis, and plummeted to the ground.

  One Jijaki did survive the crash, although she was badly injured. She made it out onto the ground, along with her handheld computer, an expensive model also made of kiit. The area was too moist for fossilization — her space suit, then her body, rotted away, but the indestructible artifact eventually came to be buried, as did the massive ark.

  The habitat module had crashed not far inland on the western shore of the eastern landmass. If it had hit just a little farther to the west, in the water between the two continents, it would have eventually been subducted as the tectonic plates drove together. But where it did fall, it would probably remain for a very long time.

  I had hoped to leave no trace of my handiwork, but the Ditikali-ot was indeed the final ark. I had no way to remove its wreckage, and every last Jijaki was now dead, so none of them could be summoned to clean up the mess.

  Fra’toolar

  Toroca looked up at the night sky.

  He reflected that he was a child of the new universe, conceived by Afsan and Novato in the very moment at which the two of them, pooling what they had learned through her far-seers, came realize the shape of space, the structure of the cosmos.

  Before then, the Face of God was an object of veneration, not merely a planet, and the other planets were just points in the night, not distinct spheres. Before then, the moons were something unto themselves, instead of more examples of what the world was — globes spinning around the Face of God. Before then, the rings around the planets Kevpel and Bripel were unknown. Before then, the sky river was thought to be the reflection of the great body of water that Land was said to float upon, instead of, as Toroca himself had seen through lenses, countless stars.

  Before then, too, the world was simpler, for it was Afsan’s work, and the work of his master, the great Tak-Saleed, that had demonstrated that the world was doomed, its orbit about the Face too close to be stable.

  But now the universe was even more complex, for other beings apparently lived on one of the objects in the night sky, strangers who had visited this world once, long ago, leaving behind one of their ships and, apparently, their cargo of plants and animals.

  Did the strangers live on one of the other moons of the Face of God? On Swift Runner? Slowpoke? The Guardian? The thirteen other moons had been observed now for kilodays through the finest far-seers from the tops of the tallest mountains. None seemed to have liquid seas or fertile land.

  Could the strangers have come from another planet? It seemed clear that the closer one moved toward the sun, that brilliant white point that lit the world, the hotter it would be. Likewise, moving farther away would plunge a world into cold, more bitter than even that of the ice caps. No, the inner planets, Carpel. Patpel, and Davpel, were surely barren and scorched, and distant Gefpel, seeming almost unmoving in the night sky, must be chilled beyond all imagining. Perhaps Kevpel, next closest to the sun from here. Or perhaps Bripel, one planet farther out. Or perhaps one of their moons, those tiny points that could be seen to accompany them through a far-seer.

  Or perhaps from somewhere else, somewhere much farther away.

  The sun was tiny but hot, showing a barely perceptible disk.

  There were those who said the other stars were also suns, just farther away.

  And if those suns had planets…

  And if those planets had moons…

  The strangers could have come from any one of them.

  From one with a longer day…

  A longer day! Quintaglios slept every other day because they’d originated on a world with a day perhaps twi
ce as long, and, despite all the time that they’d been on this world, they’d somehow been unable to acclimatize to sleeping more frequently…

  And yet … the once-a-year mating cycle had adapted to the rhythms of this world, apparently.

  They’d been here long enough to become attuned to this world in most ways, but still, deep within their beings, there were ties to whatever crucible they’d originally formed in.

  Toroca stared up at the firmament, at the wide awe and wonder of the night.

  One of those points of light, perhaps, was that crucible. He wondered if they would ever discover which one.

  *44*

  The arena

  The compartments in Capital City’s stadium had been designed to each hold a single spectator. But one compartment had had its dayslab removed so that it could accommodate both Afsan and his assistant, Pal-Cadool, sitting on small stools. Cadool’s territoriality was not aroused by Afsan; the blind Quintaglio had always been a special case to him.

  "Describe everything for me, please," said Afsan.

  Cadool craned his neck to look up and out of the compartment’s opening. "There are a few clouds in the sky — the tubular, twisty kind that look like spilled entrails." Cadool paused, clicked his teeth. "Say, that’s appropriate, isn’t it?" His words were drawn out, protracted along the same stretched lines as his whole wiry frame. "The sky itself is bright mauve today. The sun is still rising, of course. It’s passing behind a cloud just now. There are three, no, four moons visible in the sky, two showing crescent faces, the other two gibbous."

  Afsan nodded. "That would be Big One, Gray Orb, Dancer, and Slowpoke."

  "Yes."

  "What about the crowd?"

  "Because of the way the compartments are laid out, no one else is directly visible from here. But I’m told every compartment is filled today."

  "Good. What’s about to happen must be widely seen if it is to have any meaning."

  "Don’t worry. I understand every newsrider from Capital province is in attendance, as well as many from the outlying areas."

  "How does the field look?" asked Afsan.

  "The grass covering it is a mixture of brown and green, but it’s quite even — they’ve done a good job of fixing it up for this event. There aren’t any exposed patches of dirt anymore. You know the field is diamond shaped? Orange powder has been laid down, marking the east-west and north-south axes, so the diamond is split into four triangular quadrants." Cadool was quiet for a moment, then: "Afsan, will Dybo win?"

  "I’m not an astrologer anymore, Cadool. Never really was one. My master died before he taught me the interpretation of omens."

  "But you have a plan?"

  "Even a plan requires much luck."

  A steady drumbeat began from down below. "Ah," said Cadool, "here come the contestants."

  "Describe them, please."

  "They’re entering from almost directly beneath us — there’s a door into the arena at ground level there, right at the mid-point of the diamond. Dybo is leading the procession. He’s got on a very thick red belt, but no sash. I guess sashes would be too dangerous. Anyway, the belt makes it easy to tell it’s him. The other seven are following him, each about five paces behind. Each one’s wearing a similar belt, with the color of his or her home province."

  Cheers went up, spectators from each province rooting for their champion. The cheers for Dybo were the loudest.

  "It’s been kilodays since I’ve had to worry about things such as memorizing provincial colors," said Afsan above the hubbub. "I don’t remember the scheme."

  "Of course," said Cadool. "Dybo is wearing imperial red. Kroy, from Arj’toolar, is wearing white. Spenress, from Chu’toolar, has donned light green. Wendest, from Fra’toolar, sports black — or maybe it’s dark blue, hard to tell. Dedprod, from Kev’toolar, is wearing light blue. Emteem — he’s from Jam’toolar — has a belt of gold. The belt of Nesster, from Mar’toolar, is pink. And Rodlox, from Edz’toolar, who started all this, wears brown." Cadool had one of Novato’s best handheld far-seers with him. He brought it up to his left eye. "Dybo looks nervous, Afsan."

  "I’m glad to hear that," said Afsan. "A great hunter once said to me, ’Fear is the counselor.’ Cockiness will get him killed. He’s wise to be afraid."

  "The blackdeath will be hungry," said Cadool. "They’ve starved it for twenty days. It may eat every one of them as it is."

  "Perhaps," said Afsan softly.

  A gong sounded below. Everyone turned their heads toward the entrance at the north end of the playing field, except for Afsan, who turned his head perpendicular to the noise, the better to hear it.

  "They’re opening the beast gate now," said Cadool. This door led directly to the stone-walled pen the great hunter had been kept in for several hundred days, awaiting the arrival of all the challengers.

  Afsan nodded. "I can hear the ratcheting of the mechanism."

  "And here comes the blackdeath…"

  A hush fell over the arena, except for some wingfingers who had been circling, wondering what was going on. They shrieked at the sight of the great carnivore coming slowly through the gateway.

  Even though he was terrified of it, Cadool had to admit the blackdeath was beautiful. An amazing hunter, all curving teeth and claws, blacker than even those rare nights when only a couple of moons were visible.

  Through the far-seer, the creature showed some signs of its ordeal. In many places, the skin on its muzzle was light gray instead of black; the great ball of resin hadn’t come off as cleanly as had been planned, and much flesh had been torn off as well. And the beast’s belly was caved in — it was clearly hungry.

  Suddenly it began. The blackdeath surged ahead, its great strides propelling it forward across the grass. The eight contestants scattered at once.

  The monster had already focused on a target: Dedprod from Kev’toolar, wearing the blue belt. Dedprod ran to the left, but the blackdeath’s stride was so many times greater than hers that she had no hope of outdistancing it.

  The blackdeath’s back was straight, parallel to the ground as it ran, its tail flying out behind. Except for its puny forearms and dull-witted boxy head, it looked remarkably like a Quintaglio in this posture … a jet-black Quintaglio, a Quintaglio covered in soot.

  Dedprod ran valiantly, with astonishing speed, but she was doomed from the moment the blackdeath cast its obsidian eyes on her. The beast quickly closed the distance between them. It tipped forward, its giant head coming down, its jaws gaping wide, wider still, the blue membranes at the corners of its gaping red maw stretched tight like drumheads. The blackdeath seized her, chomping down on her back. The crack of splintering spine was clearly audible in Afsan and Cadool’s compartment. Dedprod let out a scream that was cut short in mid-blast as her torso split open under the closing of the blackdeath’s jaws, the air that fueled the scream finding an easier escape through the great bloody rent in her hide.

  There were seven others to deal with, of course, but the blackdeath was famished. The crowd watched from the safe elevation of the stands as the great carnivore dropped Dedprod’s body to the ground. It fixed her torso in place with a massive three-toed foot, then bent low, tearing off one of Dedprod’s legs with a yanking motion of its jaws.

  Quintaglios were too small and bony to make a good meal for a blackdeath, but this one was famished. Dedprod’s leg fit most of the way into its maw, the giant teeth tearing the muscle from it. The blackdeath used its tiny hands to maneuver the severed limb around, the way an eggling might play with a teething rod, then at last it dropped the remains — bones slick with blood, tendons and remnants of flesh dangling from them. They fell to the ground, still articulated.

  The beast continued to work over the carcass, tearing entrails from Dedprod’s body cavity.

  On the field, Emteem, the male from Jam’toolar, was panicking. His screams were plaintive as he begged to be released from the arena. He clawed and clawed at the arena’s stone walls, trying to get purch
ase, trying to climb out, but the crowd jeered him, shouted that he was a coward, a disgrace. Cadool described the scene to Afsan. "My heart goes out to him," Afsan said softly.

  This screaming, this desperate bid for salvation, was Emteem’s undoing. As soon as it had finished with Dedprod, the blackdeath rose up and surveyed the field. Seven tasty morsels to choose from, all trying to keep as far away from it as possible. The blackdeath focused its attention on Emteem, apparently irritated by the noise and deciding to put an end to it.

  Twenty massive strides took the blackdeath from what was left of Dedprod — not much — to Emteem, who foolishly allowed himself to be backed up against one of the stone walls. The blackdeath’s head darted out. Emteem, still screaming, feinted to the right. The blackdeath responded by darting out again and this time it connected, its jaws closing around Emteem’s head, that being the part from which the offensive noise had been emanating. It closed its mouth, the massive jaw muscles bunching together, shearing Emteem’s head from his body and then, moments later, it spit out the crushed bones of the Quintaglio’s skull.

  The blackdeath evidently decided that its previous methodology had been satisfactory. It set about devouring Emteem’s carcass by tearing off the limbs one at a time, then dipping its now blood-slicked muzzle into the torso, enjoying the organs and entrails for dessert.

  Two down, six to go.

  There was a chance that the beast’s appetite might become satiated before all the siblings had faced its direct challenge. But it was unlikely — even eight Quintaglios would constitute a small meal compared to the blackdeath’s usual fare of thunderbeast or adult shovelmouth.

  While the blackdeath had been picking over Emteem’s remains, Kroy from Arj’toolar, wearing a white belt, had decided to sneak behind the creature, assuming that by being out of its sight, she would also be out of harm’s way.

  The strategy failed. No moving object escaped those giant ink-pool eyes. As soon as it had cleaned Emteem’s carcass to its satisfaction, the blackdeath wheeled around and made a direct path for Kroy. The governor-apprentice of Arj’toolar was full of strategies. She tried to weave left and right, but soon realized that this was simply allowing the blackdeath to close the distance between her and it more quickly. She ran in a straight line, back toward the north end of the stadium, toward the great wooden gate, now firmly closed, from which the blackdeath had emerged.