Fossil Hunter

by Robert J. Sawyer

  But I soon had work for my Jijaki to do.

  Fra’toolar

  Back at the base camp, Toroca thoroughly washed the strange blue artifact in the waters crashing against the beach. It became clear that there was a seam running around the object’s widest part. At four places, little gray tabs seemed to be protruding through slots, as if the two halves of the unit were held together by the pressure they exerted. Toroca extended his fingerclaws and used them to depress the tabs one at a time. They did indeed give a bit, but as soon as he stopped pressing upon them, they popped back out. Next he tried to depress them all simultaneously. It was difficult to do so, and one of the tabs resisted his pressure, but at last the casing popped open.

  Toroca was disappointed. He’d expected to see enormously complex gearworks within the thing’s smooth blue shell. Instead it seemed to contain no moving parts at all: a tight packing of solid cubes, a cylinder of some kind of metal, and two mutually perpendicular flat boards covered with geometric patterns in red and black and gold. Connecting the crammed components were flexible strands of some material as clear as glass.

  But no moving parts.

  What the object had been used for remained a mystery. How it worked was also elusive. But slowly it dawned on Toroca that this was not a disappointing discovery—not at all. Rather, he’d learned something that had never occurred to him, or, he was sure, to anyone else: it was possible to build devices that surely did complex work without resorting to mechanics. Solid blocks could do—what, he did not know. But they could do something. And Quintaglio engineers would eventually be able to figure out what they did, and how they did it. And knowing that such devices were possible—laying the egg of that idea in their heads—might let them develop similar devices themselves kilodays before they would have stumbled on the concept on their own.

  Layers.

  Layers of rock.

  Layers of mystery.

  Standing on the beach at sunset, Toroca’s eye roamed over the cliff face, searching.

  The sacred scrolls were written two thousand kilodays ago.

  And they said the world was created five thousand kilodays before that.

  But the erosion here and, now that he thought about it, almost everywhere in Land that he’d been would have taken more than seven thousand kilodays to happen. Much more. Jodor’s tree, clinging to the precipice—

  —like Toroca’s preconceptions.

  A Quintaglio might live for seventy kilodays or so. But it would have taken far, far more than one hundred lifetimes to deposit the layers he was now looking at. Indeed, just to accumulate the fifteen vertical paces of rock between the Bookmark layer and the top of the cliff would take far longer than that—

  —and add to that whatever amount of time it took for those layers to get pushed up into the sky, until they towered overhead as they did now…

  Staring up at the cliff face, Toroca felt a wave of vertigo.

  The world was old, inconceivably ancient.

  And even life, although it had appeared very recently in the overall geologic record, must have arisen much more than seven thousand kilodays ago.

  Layers of mystery. Toroca exhaled noisily.

  The sacred scrolls described a gradual unfolding. First plants, then plant-eaters, then carnivores.

  The rocks showed nothing like that. In them, all forms of life appeared simultaneously.

  All.

  The sacred scrolls must be wrong, not just about the age of the world, but about the sequence of events.

  Toroca was reminded again of how the layers of sediment that made up this towering cliff looked like the pages of a massive book seen edge-on. If only he could open that book, browse through the pages, see, really see, what had happened.

  And, in his hand, heavy, indestructible…the blue object, the six-fingered artifact, the thing.

  He knew where it fit in: right near the top, just below the Bookmark layer.

  What he didn’t know yet was how it fit in.

  But he would figure it out, he would peel back the layers, he would uncover the truth.

  The chill wind cut him. As always, darkness came quickly.

  But it would not last for long.

  Chapter 11

  A Quintaglio’s Diary

  I felt some odd stirrings today, a kind of excitement I hadn’t really known before. That I was reacting to some pheromones, as when on the hunt, seemed obvious, but we were not hunting. No, I was simply waiting in an anteroom for an appointment. The only other person in the room was my sister, Haldan.

  It was she. I was reacting to her.

  She must be coming into receptivity. I’d have thought her too young—she was just sixteen, after all, and estrus normally began in one’s eighteenth kiloday, but, then again, these things were not written in stone.

  My reaction was slight, as if she was not yet fully in heat, but rather was just beginning to be open. Perhaps she herself wasn’t yet aware of it.

  I didn’t like the effect it had on me. There was something inappropriate about it. Yes, I was eager to mate myself, but, somehow, to mate with my sister seemed wrong.

  Without a word, I got up and hurried from the room, terrified that my dewlap would puff in front of her.

  With Pack Tablo on the outskirts of Edz’toolar

  In the last moments of his life, the irony was not lost on Mek-Lastoon, the bloodpriest of Pack Tablo. Oh, the circumstances were not quite reversed. Here, it was a mob of adults chasing a single other adult—him—instead of him, the purple robe of his priesthood swirling about his body, chasing squealing egglings.

  But the ending would be the same.

  Lastoon’s triple-clawed feet threw up globs of mud as he continued to run, his back held almost parallel to the ground, his thick, muscular tail outstretched behind him.

  He was surprised that he could still think clearly. Surely those pursuing him were now deep in dagamant, the killing rage clouding their thoughts. But all Lastoon felt was fear, naked and raw.

  They’d come for him at the creche shortly after the sun, a sharp white disk not much wider than a point, had risen above the volcanic cones to the east. Lastoon had immediately been wary—their pheromones were all wrong—but had hid his hands in the folds of his robe. A priest should never show outstretched claws to any member of the Pack.

  Eight adults had formed a semi-circle around him, like the crescent shape of one of the many moons. “How are the hatchlings?” Jal-Garsub had asked him abruptly, with no ceremonial bow of greeting. A female of middle age, she was the Pack’s hunt leader. The respect she commanded was equal to that accorded a bloodpriest.

  “Good Garsub,” Lastoon had replied, tipping from his waist. “I cast a shadow in your presence.” He looked into her solid black eyes, seeking any reason for this rude intrusion. “The hatchlings are fine. They’re eating fresh meat now, instead of regurgitated flesh.”

  “And how many are there?” asked Bon-Cartark, standing on Garsub’s right, massive green arms crossed over his torso.

  “How many?” Lastoon repeated. “Why, six—one from each clutch of eggs laid this kiloday.”

  “And how many were there?” said hunt leader Garsub.

  “How many were there when?” asked Lastoon.

  “How many were there originally? How many children stumbled out of eggs onto the birthing sands?”

  Lastoon dipped his head in puzzlement. “One does not speak of those who were dispatched, Garsub. The Eighteenth Scroll says—”

  “I know what the scrolls say, priest.” Garsub brought her right hand into plain view. Her claws were unsheathed.

  Lastoon was silent for a moment, watching the polished talons glint in the morning sun. “There were six clutches of eight eggs apiece,” he said at last. “One of the eggs never hatched; that’s not an uncommon occurrence. So, there were forty-seven hatchlings originally.”

  “And now there are six,” said Garsub.

  “Now there are six.”

  �
��What happened to the other forty-one?”

  “Why, what always happens,” said Lastoon. “I dispatched them.”

  “You ate them.”

  Lastoon did not like Garsub’s tone. “Good hunter, you use such a harsh turn of phrase. Perhaps next time the chief provincial priest visits our Pack, you can discuss the theology with her. I think she’s due back in less than a kiloday—”

  “You ate them,” Garsub said again.

  Lastoon turned his head so that all would know that he was looking away. “That is the prescribed rite, yes.”

  “You ate forty-one of the Pack’s children.”

  “Hatchlings are not children of the Pack until after the culling; I dispatched the excess spawn.” He paused briefly. “It’s my job.”

  “You dispatch seven out of every eight hatchlings?” said Garsub.

  “Of course.”

  “And in all of the Fifty Packs there are bloodpriests such as yourself.”

  “One per Pack, yes, plus one apprentice to take my place when I am gone.” Lastoon looked up. “I haven’t seen Cafeed yet this morning. He’s usually not this late.”

  “Young Cafeed will not be coming to the creche today,” said one of the others, Cat-Madool, his voice soft, almost a hiss.

  “Oh?” said Lastoon.

  “You dispatch seven out of every eight,” repeated Garsub.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your counterparts do the same elsewhere.”

  “Indeed. In each of the Fifty Packs, across all eight provinces of Land.”

  “There are no exceptions?” asked Garsub, her voice talon-sharp.

  “Of course not.”

  “No exceptions?”

  “Good Garsub, I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “Who is governor of this province?” asked Garsub.

  “Why, Dy-Rodlox, of course,” said Lastoon.

  “And who is his brother?” demanded Garsub.

  Lastoon felt a tingling in his muzzle. “I don’t—”

  “Who is his brother?”

  “Why would I know the answer to such a question?”

  “But you do know,” said Garsub. “Answer!”

  “I don’t…”

  “Answer! Answer, or feel my claws!”

  “Good Garsub, surely you wouldn’t strike a member of your own Pack?”

  Garsub surged closer. “Answer! Who is Rodlox’s brother?”

  The bloodpriest was silent.

  Garsub raised his hand. “Answer!”

  Lastoon looked from face to face, seeking a way out. At last, his voice very small indeed, he said, “He doesn’t have a brother.”

  Cartark pointed directly at Lastoon, fingerclaw extended. “His muzzle flushes blue.”

  “You’re lying,” said Garsub.

  “Please, hunt leader, there are some things best left unknown. Surely you appreciate that—”

  “Who is Governor Rodlox’s brother?”

  Lastoon crossed his arms over his chest, robes dangling from them. “I cannot answer that.”

  “It is Emperor Dybo,” said Garsub. “Isn’t it?”

  “Garsub, please—”

  “If it is not true, bloodpriest, then deny it, here and now. Deny it while the sun shines on your muzzle. Deny it.”

  It was pointless, of course. His muzzle would show the liar’s tint if he tried to do as Garsub asked. He looked at the ground, damp soil compacted by his own footprints and swept by his own tail.

  “Forty-one babies killed this kiloday by you,” said Garsub. “Perhaps as many last kiloday. And as many again the kiloday before that.”

  “It’s necessary,” said Lastoon softly. “The population must be kept in check. It is the sacred role of the bloodpriest. My holy order—”

  “Your order is corrupt!” snapped Garsub. “You swallow our children whole, but you all have complicity in a fraud against our entire race. The Emperor’s children live, do they not?”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “A newsrider from Capital City,” said Garsub. “She brought news of governor Rodlox having declared this for all to hear. You bloodpriests deceive us common people. You enshrine the power of The Family. But the truth is out now. Dy-Rodlox here in Edz’toolar, and the apprentice governors in all the other provinces, are brothers and sisters to fat Dybo, who lies in the Capital on the ruling throne, a throne he did not earn, a throne he does not deserve.”

  Cartark spoke again: “Why should all the children of The Family live when our own do not?”

  “You’re mistaken, Cartark. It’s just that—”

  “Your muzzle betrays you, priest.”

  “No, please, you don’t understand. Mine is a holy duty.”

  “Yours is a lie,” said Garsub, “an attempt to keep the Fifty Packs under control, control that dates back to the false prophet Larsk, control that should be in the hands of the people.”

  “But the population—it must be kept in check.”

  “Then,” said Garsub, her voice a hiss, “we shall start by eliminating one worthless mouth to feed.”

  It was all a blur. Garsub sprang forward, but Lastoon was already in motion, running as fast as his legs could carry him. He was much older than the hunt leader, perhaps half again her bulk. It was a lot more mass to move, but he had a correspondingly longer stride. Still, Garsub and her hunting parties brought down thunderbeasts and hornfaces and armorbacks and shovelmouths. His greater speed would postpone the inevitable, nothing more.

  The creche was in the center of the tiny town; Lastoon bolted for the town’s northern periphery, hoping to make it into the galamaja forest.

  The others gave chase. They started as a wall of eight Quintaglios, but it was only a matter of heartbeats before they fell into a single file behind Lastoon, arranged in descending order of age/size/stride. Lastoon felt his heart pounding as he ran on.

  It had rained the previous night, and the ground was still dotted with puddles. Lastoon’s feet made great sucking sounds as they pulled out of the mud. Behind him, he could hear the others splashing along. The footing was treacherous. Lastoon’s robe was ruined, sodden at its base, the purple cloth now dappled brown with muck.

  Where were the others? Granted, it was still early, and last night had been odd-night, when most people slept, but some Quintaglios should have been up and about by now. Or had Garsub and the rest kept them away, just as they’d kept his apprentice Cafeed away?

  Lastoon rounded a bend, his thundering, splashing arrival startling a small clutch of wingfingers into flight, their chorus of screams a substitute for the ones Lastoon would have made if he could have caught the breath to do so.

  Footfalls pounding the ground, mud flying everywhere, the trees still fifty paces or so away—

  —and then—

  —stumbling, falling, flailing in the filth, a great splash of water, the underside of his muzzle plowing a swath—

  —a mad scramble to get back to his feet, toeclaws slipping and sliding in the brown ooze, unable to find purchase—

  —at last righting himself, lunging forward.

  But it was too late.

  Pain shot up his spine. Lastoon looked back. Right behind him was Garsub, something big in his mouth.

  The end of Lastoon’s tail.

  Sheared off in one massive bite.

  Lastoon tried to run on, but he felt nauseous, and his stride was thrown off by the change in balance.

  The others were fast approaching.

  Garsub lunged forward again, and again Lastoon found himself sliding headfirst across the mud. The hunt leader was upon him. Lastoon rolled his eyes to look up at her. Garsub’s left arm came swiping down, claws extended. Lastoon felt a sharp pain in his side and then an incredible cold. He struggled to roll her off and in the process saw that his intestines were spilling out onto the mud.

  The others reached him now, great jaws lined with sharp curved teeth snapping shut on his arm, his leg, his tail, his rump. Lastoon w
atched in a final, almost detached, moment as Cartark’s gullet extended, gulping a hunk out of Lastoon.

  Blood was everywhere, and then, soon, there was darkness.

  As his life ebbed from him, flowing into the muddy water, Lastoon thought his last thought.

  At least I had the decency to swallow the children whole.

  Chapter 12

  Rockscape

  Huffing and puffing, Dybo made his way up the sloping path to Afsan’s rock. Normally the Emperor didn’t like coming out here: the trip made his dewlap waggle in an effort to dissipate heat. But today he welcomed it, for his meeting with Afsan required absolute privacy. No one could approach within a hundred paces without being heard or seen.

  There was Afsan, up ahead, straddling the granite boulder, his tail hanging over the back. Snoozing quietly beside the rock was Afsan’s pet lizard, Cork, its lithe body curved into a crescent shape. Afsan was sometimes accompanied by Cadool, or a scribe, or someone who could read to him from books, or by students who had come to ask him about the moons and planets and the Face of God. But today he was alone, just sitting on his rock.

  Thinking.

  That Afsan thought great thoughts Dybo already knew, though the idea of just staring out into space and thinking for daytenths on end was something he could not fathom. But, of course, that wasn’t right, either. Afsan was not staring out into space. Rather, he was in perpetual darkness, seeing only those images his mind provided. It had been sixteen kilodays since Afsan’s blinding, and, although Det-Yenalb, the one who had actually pierced Afsan’s eyes with an obsidian dagger, was long dead, Dybo still felt guilt each time he saw his friend, each time he realized yet again that his friend could not see him.