Fossil Hunter

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “You will. You’ll see more ice than you can possibly imagine. You’ll grow sick of it, I promise you.” Keenir lifted his head and shouted to his crew, “Hard to starboard!”

  The night sky danced.

  A curtain of diaphanous green fluttered across the firmament, now rippling, now waving. Its reflection could be seen on the water. Moments later, streamers of yellow grew upward from the horizon, twisting and intertwining as they did so, growing taller with each passing moment. Vertical bands of deeper green, pulsating as if alive, appeared across the sky, counterpointing the yellow.

  Toroca thought he could hear, just below the threshold of certainty, a hissing sound, punctuated by occasional crackles, like a fire spitting its last.

  The display was awe-inspiring, gorgeous—

  —and fleeting. Already, it had started to fade.

  Toroca shook his head in wonderment. He’d thought, perhaps, that his father had unraveled all the secrets of the skies, but it was clear that they still contained many new mysteries.

  Chapter 15

  Capital City: Dybo’s palace

  The old imperial palace had been destroyed in the great landquake that occurred shortly after Dybo and Afsan had returned from their pilgrimage voyage to gaze upon the Face of God. The new palace, built not far from the ruins of the old, was less ornate, more modern in design, simpler and cleaner. After all, it would not do for resources to be lavished on the Emperor’s home when all on Land were being asked to make sacrifices to speed the exodus project.

  Rodlox was brought by imperial guards to the palace’s ruling room. He wasn’t wearing his gubernatorial sash, perhaps a sign that he no longer considered that office a sufficient honor. No, the sash he wore, crossing from his left shoulder to his right hip, tapering as it did so, sported no decorations at all. But it was red, the color traditionally reserved for members of The Family. He was making clear to all that he claimed his place amongst the ruling dynasty.

  Rodlox was furious that Dybo was not yet here. A deliberate slight, no doubt, this keeping him waiting. He fought to prevent his anger from showing. He would not let the guards report to Dybo that this insult had been effective.

  At last the Emperor waddled in. His sash—made of perhaps twice as much material as Rodlox’s, to accommodate Dybo’s greater circumference—was also red, a true blood red, a hunter’s color, made with the finest and rarest dyes. In comparison to the royal livery, Rodlox’s looked too light, too pink, quite literally a pale imitation of Dybo’s own. Rodlox clenched his fists.

  Dybo looked Rodlox up and down, an appraisal made clear by the tipping of his muzzle. At last the Emperor said, without preamble or traditional bow, “Why have you challenged me?”

  Rodlox folded his arms across his muscular chest. “You are not rightful Emperor.”

  Dybo, in turn, spread his arms. “You cannot be sure of that. Without conclusive evidence, it’s a hollow claim.”

  Rodlox’s tone was firm. “I am sure of it, sure in my very bones.”

  Dybo stepped up to the marble platform that supported the ruling slab and the katadu benches for imperial advisors. He lowered himself belly-first onto the angled slab and looked down upon Rodlox.

  Rodlox refused to be victim of such a transparent ploy. Rather than look up at the Emperor, he simply turned sideways and gave the appearance of examining the tapestries on the far wall, although in fact his black eyes were locked on his rival. “It’s true,” he said. “I know it’s true.”

  The ruling slab creaked slightly under Dybo’s weight; that amused Rodlox, but the Emperor went on, oblivious. “Dy-Rodlox, look at me. Look at my muzzle.” Rodlox turned to face him. “I tell you, I have no direct reason to believe what you say is true.”

  Rodlox shrugged. “That your muzzle hasn’t turned blue doesn’t surprise me. It means only that those who perpetrated this fraud did not confide in you.”

  “Are you saying they did confide in you, Dy-Rodlox? Did someone tell you this, someone who would know?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter. Consider this, brother, not one of the provincial governors has risen up to challenge your authority to rule, authority based solely on the fact that you are a descendant of the now-discredited Larsk. Not one of them. Why is that?”

  “Satisfaction with my administration?” Dybo said innocently.

  “You know full well that many people object to the exodus project, think it a mad obsession on your part, an obsession driving us to ruin.”

  Dybo dipped his muzzle in mild concession. “Some say that, yes.”

  “And yet, despite the opposition to the exodus, not one of the other governors has risen against you.”

  An insect had somehow made it into the room and was buzzing above Dybo’s back. He flicked his tail, trying to shoo it away. “So you’re saying the reason they haven’t challenged me is that the other governors are also party to this conspiracy.”

  “I think they are,” said Rodlox, “except for myself.”

  “If such a conspiracy involved all governors, why are you exempt?”

  “Both the previous incumbent in your office of Emperor and the previous incumbent in my office of governor of Edz’toolar died prematurely. I know my predecessor told me nothing about this before she died; perhaps Lends had said nothing to you before that roof collapsed on her.”

  “I tell you, she did not.”

  “I must accept that,” said Rodlox, “but I suspect at least some of your advisors know. Mek-Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest, for one. Have you asked him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? If my claim is absurd, he could prove that. Ask him.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s gone missing.”

  “You’ve had him locked away, I’d warrant.”

  “I’ve done no such thing. He’s left town, apparently of his own volition.”

  “Regardless,” said Rodlox, “his absence bolsters my claim.”

  “If this is true, surely Maliden isn’t the only one who knows.”

  “That’s right. I’m confident the other provincial governors know. Again, that’s why they continue to support you, despite your delusions. To expose your secret would be to expose their secret: that they were illegally exempted from the culling of the bloodpriest.”

  “What about your advisors, Dy-Rodlox? Surely Len-Ganloor told some of them before she died?”

  “An unusual situation,” said Rodlox with a shrug. “Those who would have been my two most-senior aides, Cat-Makdon and Pal-Haskan, were part of that same ill-fated hunting party on which Governor Len-Ganloor died.” Rodlox shook his head. “It should have been an easy kill, a concession to ceremony, really. Ganloor, Makdon, and Haskan were all trampled to death in the stampede.”

  “And you think the secret about your siblings died with them?”

  “Yes. I don’t think there’s anyone left in my province who knows the truth,” said Rodlox. “But once you fight me, they will. The entire world will.”

  Dybo waved his hand. “Even if, as you claim, I was not the strongest eggling of Lends’s clutch, that does not necessarily mean that you were the strongest. There would have been six others, besides you and me.”

  “The six who now serve as apprentice governors in the other provinces.” Rodlox nodded. “But the same logic that says keep the weakest here at the imperial court also says send the strongest to the most isolated province. Edz’toolar isn’t the farthest of the toolars from the Capital, but it is the harshest and most difficult to get into, requiring the climbing of many mountains if approaching by land, and weathering its storm-swept shores if arriving by water.”

  “But there’s no guarantee that the winner of a battle between just the two of us now would indeed be the same one of the eight who would have best eluded the bloodpriest twenty-eight kilodays ago.”

  Rodlox grunted. “True. But in the absence of any alternative method of making the determination, it must suffice. I c
an prove I am of the imperial line, prove that I am Larsk’s descendant.”

  “Proof is an elusive thing—”

  “I can demonstrate it to the reasonable satisfaction of the public. And that, fat one, is all that counts.”

  A moment later, Dybo’s claws slipped out, and it seemed to Rodlox that it was perhaps a deliberate gesture rather than an instinctive response. “You will not address me that way. My name is Dy-Dybo, and I grant you permission to use it. If you prefer to call me by title, you will use ‘Your Luminance’ or ‘Emperor.’”

  “I will call you what I wish.”

  Dybo raised his hand. “Then this conversation is at an end. I have granted you no special privileges, beyond the right to call me directly by name. I rule, Dy-Rodlox. Acknowledge that.”

  “For the time being, Dybo.” That Rodlox had chosen the familiar form of his name visibly irritated Dybo, for it was clearly done not from affection but out of defiance. “But you must answer my challenge.”

  Still, Dybo adopted a slightly mollified tone. “I see that you are a person of strong will, and I grant that your intellect is keen.” He scratched his belly, which was spilling over the side of the polished stone slab. “Perhaps Edz’toolar is too barren and isolated a prize for one such as you. I offer an accommodation, a middle ground: a senior official’s role, with whatever portfolio you desire. Public works? The judiciary? Name it, and it is yours. You will move here to the Capital and enjoy all the benefits of life at the imperial court.”

  Rodlox scraped his teeth together, a deliberate mockery of laughter. “You are transparent, Dybo. You perceive me as a threat, so you would have me underfoot where I could be watched at all times. I reject your offer. You will fight me in single combat. And I shall win.”

  Dybo spoke now as one might speak to a child. “Single combat has been barred since ancient times. You know that. There is no way to begin a battle without having it continue until one participant is dead.”

  “That is true.”

  “You threaten me with death? There are prescribed penalties for such treason.”

  “I make no threat. I simply note the probable outcome of a battle between us.”

  “I concede that I am perhaps not your physical match—”

  “Indeed you are not.”

  “But being Emperor is not about physical prowess. It’s about fairness and progress and clarity of vision.”

  “Which is why the most appropriate person—the rightful heir—must, must, lie upon that ruling slab that now strains to support you.”

  Dybo spread his arms, looking to Rodlox like a monster wingfinger, suspended in air by the slab. “All the Packs are prosperous. We’re making great strides toward the stars. What quarrel do you have with me?”

  “I hate you.” The words were unexpectedly harsh.

  Dybo’s inner eyelids blinked. “I do not hate you, Rodlox.”

  “You should. For I am your downfall personified. I will push and push and push until I am in your place.”

  “I could have you banished.”

  “To where? Edz’toolar?” Rodlox clicked his teeth. “I am lord of Edz’toolar already.”

  “I could have you executed.”

  “And violate the ancient laws? I think not. There are those who would not stand for that; you would destroy what’s left of your own authority if you flouted our laws so. No, Dybo, you have only three choices. One”—and here Rodlox raised a finger, claw extended—“you can accept my challenge. Two”—a second finger erect, its claw likewise unsheathed—“you can abdicate your role, acknowledge my claim, and let me assume the Emperorship. I will allow you to live. Or, three”—and a third clawed finger was held up—“you can take the coward’s route and wait until the people force you to respond to my challenge.”

  Dybo regarded Rodlox’s raised hand. The ticking off of points with clawed fingers was so like his mother’s way. For the first time, Dybo realized that, without a doubt, this was his brother. It was a tragedy, this conflict, for surely in cooperation they could accomplish so much more than they individually would through a rivalry.

  Dybo shook his head. “You are wrong, Rodlox. There is a fourth alternative, and one that is more appropriate than any of your choices. Hear me describe it, and then we shall see which of us is the coward.”

  A Quintaglio’s Diary

  I wish I didn’t have siblings. I try not to compare myself to them, but it’s futile. I can’t help myself. Am I as proficient as they? As keen of mind? Is my pilgrimage tattoo as intricate and well-balanced as that sported by Yabool? And which of us does Novato and Afsan favor? Surely they’ve thought that, if things had gone differently, only one of their children would have lived. Which would they have preferred it to be?

  I was thinking these thoughts today as I ate in one of the communal dining halls when Haldan walked in. She passed nowhere near me on her way to fetch a piece of meat, so she didn’t bother to bow concession in my direction. She simply settled herself in at a bench on the opposite side of the room and began to gnaw at her meal.

  I watched her. Of course I was careful not to swing my muzzle in her direction; she couldn’t tell where I was looking. But it came to me, as I worried out the final bits of meat adhering to the bone in front of me, that I couldn’t tell where she was looking, either. Her eyes, solid black, could have been focused on the flesh in front of her.

  Or they could have been focused on me.

  On me.

  We’d often thought the same thoughts before; I’d seen it in her expression.

  Were we thinking the same thing now?

  And suddenly I realized exactly what it was that I was thinking at that moment, a ripple that wouldn’t die down, a thought dark and dangerous and persistent.

  I wished she was dead.

  I stopped picking over my meat and, at the same moment, she stopped picking over hers.

  I wondered if she was thinking the same thing about me.

  Chapter 16

  The Dasheter

  Toroca was up on deck. On board a sailing ship, everyone had chores to perform, and Babnol knew she could count on him being occupied for at least a couple of daytenths. She went down the ramp, its timbers groaning not under her weight but rather under the buffeting of the ship, and came to Toroca’s cabin.

  She paused briefly to reread the plaque about Afsan and to admire the carving of the five hunters in the dark wood of the door. There was a copper signaling plate adjacent to the doorjamb, but she didn’t drum her claws against it. Instead, she stole a furtive glance over her shoulder, then opened the door, the squeaking of its hinges making her even more nervous. As soon as she was inside Toroca’s cabin, she swung the door shut.

  Her claws were exposed. Invading another’s territory was uncomfortable. Although she knew Toroca wouldn’t be back for some time, she couldn’t tarry here. It was too upsetting.

  Although there was a desk with a small bench in front of it—space aboard a sailing ship was at too much of a premium to allow for a dayslab—Toroca had wisely placed all fragile objects directly on the floor, lest the pitching of waves knock them off the desk. No lamps were lit, of course; it was far too dangerous to leave a flame unattended. But the leather curtain was drawn back from the porthole, and, indeed, the little window had been swung open, letting the cold, salty air from outside pour in. In the harsh sunlight coming from the porthole, she could see the hinged wooden case that held the far-seer Afsan had given to Toroca. But that was not what she had come for, nor was the object of her quest plainly visible.

  Even more distasteful: she would have to rummage through Toroca’s things. Such a breach of protocol! Still, it had to be done. She moved over to the storage trough and gingerly picked up sashes and backpacks and pieces of the specially designed arctic clothing, carefully stacking each piece on the floor so that she could put them back exactly the way they had been. There were several books amongst Toroca’s effects, including one written by his father and, to her surprise,
a well-thumbed copy of the book of Lubalite prayer.

  At last she found what she was looking for: the object, the strange blue hemisphere with the vexing six-fingered handle attached. She picked it up and, cradling it in both hands, held it in front of her. She was always surprised by its weight and the way the material warmed so quickly in her hands. She looked at the strange geometric carvings—little strings of symbols—at several places on its lower surface, and wondered for the thousandth time what they meant.

  The object’s color bespoke evil. Blue. An unholy color; the color of lies, of deceit.

  No Quintaglio made this object, of that she was sure. The strange material—harder than diamond!—couldn’t be worked by any tool, and that grip wasn’t made for a hunter’s hand.

  But if not a Quintaglio, then who?

  Quintaglios had five fingers.

  God had five fingers.

  The sixth fingerhole made this an unholy device. Not of Quintaglio. Not of God.

  There was goodness in God, goodness in God’s creations.

  This—thing—lacked goodness. And, therefore, it was dangerous. She had seen how Toroca had spent endless daytenths staring at it, turning it over and over again in his hands, clicking the rings up and down, up and down…

  Six fingers.

  And yet—perhaps the user of this device had been like her: different from most. A facial horn; a sixth finger. Did one or the other make you lack goodness?

  Of course not.

  But this was an ancient artifact, dating from the very beginning of life.

  Things do occasionally hatch from eggs that are so horrible, so deformed, that the bloodpriests dispatch them immediately, without waiting for the formal culling.

  There were no bloodpriests at the beginning, none until God bit off Her own arms, and Mekt formed from one of Her fingers.

  So a horrible thing that hatched from one of the eggs of creation wouldn’t have been dispatched, since there was no one to do the dispatching.

  She turned the device over in her hands.