Fossil Hunter

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Maliden winced; he was in great pain. “If it had worked, perhaps we would have. But remember, although I am head bloodpriest, I have my opponents, even within my order. It would have been difficult to keep such a change from becoming public. This was easier. Although a closely guarded secret, all eight imperial children always got to live ever since the days of Larsk; I made no change in that. I could not be sure of the results of my—my experiment, to use one of your words—if I’d done it differently.”

  “A breeding experiment.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was a success.”

  “In most ways,” said Maliden, his voice now much fainter than when he’d begun speaking. “Dybo is the best ruler we’ve ever had; you know that to be true. Without an equitable person such as him on the throne slab, you’d never have gotten your exodus project off the ground, so to speak. Indeed, you’d be dead—long since executed.” He paused.

  Afsan, uncomfortable in the prolonged crouch, rose to his feet and rocked back on his tail. “Incredible.”

  “Every word is true, Afsan.” Maliden’s attenuated voice was all but lost in the room.

  “Incredible,” Afsan said again.

  “You see the priesthood as your enemy; as the opponent of science. I can understand that, I suppose, for it was a priest, Det-Yenalb, who put a knife point into each of your eyes. But that was Yenalb alone, and even he thought what he was doing was for the good of the people.”

  Afsan nodded slowly. “I know that.”

  “And I know that what you are doing is also for the good of the people,” said Maliden.

  “Thank you.”

  “But, now, please accept that what I did was likewise for the common good.”

  Afsan was quiet for a time. “I accept it.”

  Maliden let his breath out. It took a long time, as though his lungs were so congested that the air was stymied in its attempts to escape. “I’m coming to an interesting moment, Afsan,” Maliden said at last. “I’ve been a priest for a long time. I’ve told others what to believe about God, about life after death. Soon, I’ll find out for myself if I’ve been right.”

  Afsan nodded. “It’s something we all wonder about.”

  “But I’m supposed to know. And, here, when it counts most of all, I find that I don’t. I really, down deep, don’t know that’s about to happen to me.”

  “I don’t know, either, Maliden.” A pause. “Are you afraid?”

  A voice almost nonexistent: “Yes.”

  “Would you like me to stay with you?”

  “It is much to ask.”

  “I was with my master, Saleed, when he passed on. I was with my son, Drawtood, when he passed on, too.”

  “What was it like?”

  “I didn’t see Drawtood, of course, but Saleed was…calm. He seemed ready.”

  “I’m not sure I am.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever be, either.”

  “But, yes, Afsan, I would like you to stay.”

  “I will.”

  “When I’m gone, will you tell Dybo that he was indeed the weakest?”

  “He’s my friend.”

  Maliden sighed. “Of course.”

  “And I would never hurt my friend.”

  “Thank you,” Maliden said.

  They waited quietly together.

  Musings of The Watcher

  I, too, waited quietly, waited for millions of years.

  I missed the Jijaki. None of the other worlds I had seeded had yet borne sapient life, although I had hopes for some of them. But my best prospects, I was sure, were the mammal planet and the dinosaur moon. I watched anxiously while this galaxy completed a quarter-revolution, desperately afraid that I had miscalculated, that, because of my interference, no intelligent life would evolve on either world.

  But on the reptiles’ new home, despite the shock of transplantation, the slow and steady increase in brain-body ratios continued unabated. Likewise, the mammals, now that all niches were open to them on the Crucible, continued to climb up the same curve.

  And, at last, intelligent life appeared, nearly simultaneously, on both worlds.

  The dominant land life on the Crucible eventually came to call itself Humanity and to call their world Earth. In a place that came to be known as Canada, human geologists found the Burgess shale, fine-grained fossil-rich stones dating right from what they called the Cambrian explosion, a vast diversification of life, with dozens of new, fundamentally different body plans appearing virtually simultaneously.

  Almost all of these body plans died out quickly on the Crucible, although I transplanted specimens of them to many worlds. One of those, the five-eyed, long-trunked Opabinia, was the ancestor of the Jijaki, those long-gone cousins the humans would never know.

  For their part, on the moon I’d moved them to, the intelligent beings descended from Earth’s dinosaurs—in particular, from a dwarf tyrannosaur called Nanotyrannus—named themselves Quintaglios, “the People of Land.”

  I thought I had succeeded. I thought I had allowed both sentient forms to flourish. But it eventually became horribly apparent that there was another factor I had failed to consider.

  This universe differs from the one I evolved in. Here chaos reigns: sensitivity to initial conditions drives all systems. I thought I had done well, picking the third moon of a gas-giant world. But there were thirteen other moons, moons whose orbits and masses I could measure only approximately. I hadn’t been able to reliably plot orbits more than a few thousand years into the future. Nor could I accurately gauge the minuscule but not irrelevant pulls of the other planets in that system.

  The tugs of all these masses produce a chaotic dance to which even the dancers can’t predict the outcome. The orbits of the moons changed over time, and eventually the third become the first, growing closer, and closer still, and at last, too close, to the planet it orbited. The Quintaglio world—now the innermost moon—continued to be tidally locked, so its day matched the length of its orbit, but now its days, days that are numbered, lasted slightly less than half the length of those on the Crucible.

  I can nudge a comet ever so slightly, can attract hydrogen gas if conditions are favorable, even spin corkscrews of dark matter, but I can’t move worlds.

  The Quintaglios have a myth about a God who had lost her hands. Without my Jijaki, I have lost mine.

  But I watch.

  And I hope.

  Chapter 46

  Rockscape

  Dybo’s authority was no longer in doubt. He ruled now unchallenged the eight provinces and the Fifty Packs.

  Spenress, the only other surviving child of Len-Lends, had given up her claim to eventual power in Chu’toolar, and, instead, had accepted a minor position in Capital City. The thirst for blood was slaked, and no one was calling for further sanctions against her.

  In six of the outlying provinces, siblings of Len-Lends still ruled, but they were slowly agreeing with the will of the people: their eventual successors would be appointed on the basis of merit, not bloodline.

  And in Edz’toolar, the only province in which one of Dybo’s generation had already been ruling, instead of just apprenticing, there was currently no one serving as governor, for no one had been groomed to replace Rodlox. That problem would have to be solved soon, and perhaps it could provide a model for the subsequent successions in the other provinces and—the thought still startled Dybo somewhat, although he was learning to accept it—here in the Capital itself.

  Dybo could live with all that, but there was one more issue in the aftermath of Rodlox’s challenge that gnawed at him, keeping him from sleeping. He wished it were not his responsibility, but knew, though it saddened him to the very core of his being, that he must deal with it quickly.

  He had come to Rockscape many times of late, seeking the sage counsel of his friend Afsan, and now, slimmed down, he no longer found the trek to the ancient stones uncomfortable. He hoped Afsan would have a solution for him once more. With six of his own si
blings dead, plus hundreds of others killed in the mass dagamant, the last thing Dybo wanted to contemplate was more death.

  He saw the blind one up ahead, straddling his rock, his muzzle tipped up, enjoying the warmth of the sun. As Dybo drew nearer, Afsan turned to face him. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “Dybo.”

  Afsan nodded. “Welcome, my friend, and hahat dan.”

  Gork was nowhere to be seen. Off hunting, perhaps. Dybo was silent.

  “The garrulous Dybo at a loss for words?” said Afsan, gentle teasing in his tone. “What troubles you?”

  Dybo’s voice was heavy. “The children.”

  Afsan at once grew serious. “Yes,” he said softly.

  “There are thousands of them,” said Dybo. He shook his head. “A census is not yet complete, but so far it seems that in at least two hundred and seventeen clutches, every hatchling got to live.”

  “Seventeen hundred and thirty-six children, then,” said Afsan automatically. “Assuming no abnormally sized clutches.”

  “Yes,” said Dybo. “Something has to be done soon. The overcrowding is far too dangerous. Every Pack is on the verge of another mass dagamant.”

  Afsan pushed himself up off his rock. Startled, a blue and yellow snake slithered away from the base of the boulder. “I understand for the first time, I think, the burden borne by the bloodpriests,” he said.

  “No other choice is possible, is it?” said Dybo.

  “Than to eliminate the excess children?” Afsan exhaled noisily. “I am blind, but rarely do I feel helpless. And yet, in this instance, that’s precisely how I do feel. No, I can conceive of no other solution.” There was a long silence as each of them digested his own thoughts. “What is the status of the bloodpriests now?” said Afsan at last.

  “They’ve been reinstated in just about every Pack, as far as we can tell, although word from the more distant provinces is still coming in. You were right, though, as usual: as the envoys return from here, having watched the spectacle in the arena, the news that no one, not even The Family, is exempt from the bloodpriests’ culling is making the reinstatement easy. And, frankly, it seems that just about everyone is irritated by all the youngsters underfoot. They’re calling out for population controls.”

  Afsan nodded. “Have you appointed a new imperial bloodpriest yet?”

  “To replace Maliden? No. His body lies at Prath, and the palace is still mourning his passing.”

  “But is it not the imperial bloodpriest who leads the entire order?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then a replacement must be appointed soon,” said Afsan.

  “Granted. But who? Maliden had no apprentice.”

  “Toroca.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Kee-Toroca. My son. Make him the new imperial bloodpriest—or, at least, assign him the task of determining which should live.”

  “But he’s a geologist.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why him?”

  “Toroca is special. He has no sense of territoriality.”

  Dybo nodded. “I’ve noticed he has a tendency to stand too close to people.”

  “It’s more than that. He doesn’t feel territoriality at all. He thinks it’s a secret, but, even blind, I am more observant than he knows.”

  “No territoriality,” repeated Dybo. “Amazing.”

  “You and he have much in common, really,” said Toroca. “I heard from Cadool about how you helped quell the frenzy in the streets.”

  Dybo clicked his teeth. “I have my good days and my bad. I’m certainly not free of territoriality.”

  “No, but yours is subdued compared to most people’s.”

  Dybo grunted. “Perhaps. But you think Toroca, because of his lack of territoriality, should be the new imperial bloodpriest?”

  “Exactly,” said Afsan. “It’s a sad fact that almost all of those seventeen hundred children will have to be killed. Someday, perhaps, when we do finally get off this world, there will be room for all our children to live, but until then we must have population controls. Most of the hatchlings in question are old enough now to reveal more than just how fast they are. Let Toroca devise a way to select among them. He knows what to look for, I’m sure. I guarantee he won’t simply choose the fastest or strongest.”

  Dybo sounded worried. “But that will change—”

  “Change the entire character of a generation of Quintaglios,” said Afsan. “Maybe not by much, but it will be a step in the right direction.”

  “A whole generation chosen for something other than aggressiveness,” said Dybo. “It’s a daring thought.”

  “But a productive one. We all need to be able to work together, Dybo. You know that. The old saying is true: time crawls for a child, walks for an adolescent, and runs for an adult. Well, our civilization is now past its childhood, and time is indeed running now—running out, for this entire world.”

  “I had exactly the same thought myself many days ago,” said Dybo. “I agree, a reduction in territoriality would be a useful thing.”

  Afsan’s tail swished. “And remember the giant blue structure Toroca has found in Fra’toolar. When we do at last leave this world, we may be entering someone else’s territory. I have a feeling that, whatever’s out there, we might do well not to challenge it.”

  Dybo nodded. “Very well. I shall appoint Toroca. He won’t want the job, I’m sure…”

  “The fact that he won’t want it is perhaps his best qualification for it,” said Afsan. “Once the current overpopulation problem is solved, he can step down.”

  Dybo bowed at his friend. “You are wise, Afsan. We need more people like you.”

  Afsan dipped his muzzle, seemingly accepting the compliment. He said nothing, keeping his promise to Maliden, but held on to a single thought. No, Dybo, we need more people like you.

  Chapter 47

  North of Capital City

  Just north of Capital City, not far from Rockscape, there were some wide plains ending in a cliff face overlooking the vast body of water that, for want of a better name, people still called the Great River. The plains were covered with grass, kept short by shovelmouths and other plant-eaters. The east-west wind blew across its level surface.

  A small crowd—the only kind possible—had gathered here, gathered around what some were calling Novato’s folly.

  It was a bizarre contraption, made of thin wooden struts and sheets of leather and pieces of light metal. It seemed fragile, almost as if the wind would blow it away.

  “My friends,” said Novato, standing on an upended crate so that everyone could see her, “I present the Tak-Saleed.”

  There were murmurs of recognition from some in the crowd, but many were too young to remember the person after whom the strange machine was named.

  The Tak-Saleed had a wide triangular canopy and a small hollow undercarriage. Its front end was articulated, with a double-headed prow that pointed both forward and back. It resembled more than anything a crude child’s model of a wingfinger made from odds and ends, and yet, that wasn’t quite right either, for it had a tail that fanned out behind it and its wings were reinforced with struts.

  In these particulars, it looked not like a wingfinger, but like the strange gift from the giant blue egg found in Fra’toolar—like a bird.

  Novato moved behind the undercarriage and crawled in on her belly, lying flat within. Her tail, thick and flattened from side to side, rose up through a slit that ran down the rear of the hull. Once she was in position, two assistants stepped close, strapping the protruding part of her tail into a harness that swiveled the articulated prow.

  At last, the ropes holding the Tak-Saleed in place were cut. The steady wind blew under its great triangular wing and…and…and…

  —lifted it into the air.

  The crowd gasped. The Tak-Saleed skimmed across the plain, barely clearing the grass at times, occasionally lifting to the height of a middle-ager’s shoulder.

 
; All too soon, it skidded to a stop, having traveled perhaps twenty paces.

  Tails thumped the ground in glee. Novato let out a whoop of joy—

  —and then a gust of wind blew across the plain and suddenly she was airborne again. Unprepared, she yanked her tail, the pointed head of the craft turned, and the Tak-Saleed banked to the right, into the wind, toward the cliff face.

  Members of Novato’s team ran toward the runaway craft, hoping to grab hold of it, but just as they got close, the glider lifted higher, higher still, sailing over their heads, sailing over the precipice—

  The entire crowd ran to the edge of the cliff, mouths agape. The Tak-Saleed was spiraling down, lower and lower. If it hit the cliff face, Novato would be killed. She was frantically moving her tail, trying to steer.

  The craft rose slightly again, but only for a moment, and then the wide curving path continued its downward course. Below was rocky shore.

  There was nothing to be done. It would take a daytenth to get down to the water. There were no easy paths from here.

  They watched, horrified, as the fragile-looking craft continued to spiral in. A real wingfinger flew into view, apparently wondering what this thing was. The hairy flyer looked so much more elegant, more in control—

  The Tak-Saleed touched the waves—just touched them—and seemed to break apart.

  Novato was strapped in, her tail hooked up to the steering contraption. If she couldn’t free herself, and quickly, she would drown.

  Waves crashed against rocks.

  The Tak-Saleed looked like a dead thing, broken on the water.

  Wingfingers squawked.

  And then—

  Something moving through the waves—

  Something green.

  Novato! Her thick tail was swinging side-to-side, propelling her toward the shore. Closer, closer still. At last she stood, waves rolling against her legs. She gestured, a great, expansive arcing of her arm, at the crowd above.

  And every single one of them cheered.

  The first small step had been taken.

  The first Quintaglio had flown.