Fossil Hunter qa-2

by Robert J. Sawyer

  "Take Babnol’s hand, you vegetable!" he shouted, the insult snapping Delplas out of her stupor. She threw off her own mitten and grabbed Babnol’s hand firmly, then fell to the ice herself. Biltog and Spalton lined up behind her, at last completing the living chain.

  Toroca’s tail was close enough that Keenir could grab it, if the captain dared to lift his one naked hand off the ice, but that would have been suicide. Under sufficient stress, a tail would simply detach from the body, and Keenir, clutching the thing, would have sailed over the edge of the crevice to his death. Toroca spun his body around on the ice and reached out with his free arm. He was moving toward the old mariner at about the same rate as Keenir was slipping down toward the fissure. Babnol must have realized that, because, with a burst of strength, she pushed herself closer to the edge, dragging the other four Quintaglios behind her.

  Close. Very close.

  Got him!

  Toroca’s hand clasped Keenir’s, and the six-person chain pulled itself back up away from the adamantine edge.

  The stilt on the other side of the fissure must have still thought it was safe, for it stood there, its torso high atop long, thin arms, looking down on the Quintaglios, who were now whooping with joy at the rescue of Keenir.

  But then Keenir saw that the fissure began only ten or so paces away from where he’d almost fallen down into it, and he took off again, running along its length until he could cross without difficulty to where the stilt was. The stilt realized it was in trouble again, and took off, its vast strides its ticket to safety…

  Except that another fissure split the ice some twenty paces farther along, and this one yawned far too wide for the stilt to cross it, even with its long arms.

  And so at last, Keenir was upon it, followed moments later by Babnol and Delplas and Spalton and Biltog, while Toroca averted his eyes from the kill, from the snapping of jaws, from the slicking of the ice with dark red blood…

  But once the stilt was dead, Toroca bounded in toward it, the others scooping hunks of flesh, already stiffening in the cold, out of the corpse.

  Delplas paused, tilted her head back, and bolted down the flesh she’d torn free. Shouting to be heard above the whipping wind, she called to Toroca, "Can’t resist fresh meat after all, eh?"

  "I don’t want to eat it," Toroca called back. "I want to look at the arms."

  Keenir stopped bolting long enough to shout, "Not much meat on those, Toroca. After what you did, you’re entitled to the choicest hunks. Dig in!"

  But Toroca ignored him, and instead brought his scalpel out of a pocket on his snowsuit, and slit the stilt’s left arm along its entire length, exposing the bones within.

  It was not an arm. Or, at least, the actual arm ended at the first articulation point. The rest of the incredibly long walking appendage was made of four super-elongated finger bones.

  Toroca sagged down against the snow.

  Finger bones!

  He tried to crack one of the phalangeal bones open with his hands, but found he could not. At last he held the limb in place with his feet and pulled up with all his strength. The bone broke. It was mostly solid, but with a narrow hollow core that betrayed its origins, the central hollow packed with dense brown meat or marrow to give it further strength.

  And the head? That fleshy muzzle? Babnol was now splitting the beast’s skull open, looking for the hopefully tasty brain within. The muzzle was just an overlay on top of a horny sheath, and the teeth weren’t teeth at all, just the ragged edges of that sheath: a making-do with what was available by a creature that had come from toothless stock.

  Everyone reacted with surprise, and Keenir with delight, as Toroca, a look of disgust on his face, got up and dipped his muzzle into the thing’s torso, tearing out a small hunk of flesh.

  It tasted as he expected it would.

  Just like a wingfinger.

  *28*

  Capital City

  The Emperor headed into the palace dining hall, passing through the public areas, nodding acknowledgment at the senior advisors present, and entered the private rear section.

  Much to his surprise, scrawny Afsan, no devotee of any dining establishment, was there.

  "Ho, Afsan," said Dybo, lowering his weight onto a dayslab on the opposite side of the table. "It’s good to see you."

  "You won’t think so when I tell you why I’m here," said Afsan.

  "Oh?"

  At that moment, a butcher came in, wearing a red smock. She was carrying a silver platter on which rested the leg of a juvenile shovelmouth.

  Dybo looked up at her. "That’s enough for Afsan, I’d warrant, but you’d best slay an adult for me."

  Afsan inhaled deeply and turned his blind eyes up at the butcher. "It’s as I requested?" he asked.

  "Yes," she replied, sounding, to Dybo’s ear, somewhat nervous.

  "Then you are dismissed, Fetarb. You may spend the rest of the day in leisure activities."

  She nodded quickly and scurried away.

  "Wait a beat," said Dybo to Afsan. "What about me?"

  "This is for you."

  "It’s hardly enough. And what will you eat?"

  "This is for me, too. We’re going to share it."

  "Share this! It’s barely a snack."

  "It’s more than enough for two, Dybo. From now on, until the battle, you will eat your meals with me, taking only as much as I do."

  "I am the Emperor!"

  "You are also, old friend, quite fat. We’ll get you in shape for the battle yet, starting with putting you on a diet."

  "You cannot give me orders," said Dybo.

  Afsan spread his arms. "No, of course not. I am only an advisor. But I do strongly give you this advice. Eat less. You’ll need to be fleet of foot if you are to survive."

  Dybo eyed the leg suspiciously. "It’s not very meaty."

  "It will do just fine."

  "But, Afsan, you are notorious for your thinness, for how little you eat. Couldn’t I match the consumption of, say, Pal-Cadool, or Det-Bogkash?"

  "They’re both much older than you. I’m your age, I’m the same height as you. Come, I’ve been generous. Even half of this is a much bigger meal than I normally take."

  "But what if I feel hungry later?"

  "Perhaps you will. And you can eat as much as you like then."

  "Ah, that’s better."

  "So long as you hunt it down and kill it yourself. A healthy chase through tall grass will do you good."

  "Afsan, you are a hard taskmaster."

  "No," said Afsan. "I’m simply your friend. And I want you to win."

  Dybo grunted, then dipped his muzzle toward the meat.

  Dybo spent three daytenths every second odd-day at court, lying on the ruling slab, with his chief aides seated on katadu benches to his left and right. Any citizen could make an appointment to see Dybo, this being one of Dybo’s chief reforms, replacing the isolated and autocratic style of his mother and predecessor, Len-Lends.

  Sometimes people came to appeal rulings made by the legal system. Dybo, of course, could overturn any judgment, and he had a reputation as something of a softy. On other occasions, scholars and inventors would come, looking for imperial support. Here, Dybo was more pragmatic: if the proposal would aid the exodus, even peripherally, its sponsor usually walked away with a document bearing Dybo’s cartouche. Any other project had a tough time getting his interest, although occasionally he showered support on musicians, music having been the Emperor’s first love. Dybo required no direct tribute, never having been a materialist. However, those who brought toys for the children in the creche were often favored.

  Just now he was hearing the complaint of a young female who had traveled from Chu’toolar. She felt the profession selected for her was inappropriate. But the proceedings were interrupted by Withool, a junior page, bursting into the ruling room.

  Dybo knew his staff would not disturb him without good cause. He looked expectantly at Withool.

  "There’s been ano
ther one," said the page. "Another murder."

  "Where?" Dybo pushed off his ruling slab and stepped down from the pedestal.

  "Again, in an apartment complex, this time by the Pakta tannery."

  "Who was the victim?"

  "Yabool, a mathematician and naturalist."

  "Haldan’s brother," said Dybo.

  "Haldan’s what?"

  "Brother," said Dybo, irritated. "Male sibling."

  "Oh. I thought…"

  "How did it happen?"

  "As before," said Withool, "Yabool’s throat was slit, quite nastily, apparently by a broken mirror. Pieces of shattered mirror were found all around the body."

  "I see," said Dybo.

  "Someone should tell the newsriders," proffered one of Dybo’s aides.

  "Not yet."

  "As you say, Your Luminance."

  Dybo said, "There are others who should be informed directly. His supervisor, for instance."

  "Of course," said Withool. "I’ll attend to that."

  "And his parents."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "His parents, Afsan and Novato."

  "Oh, he’s one of those, was he?" said Withool. "Well, I’ll attend to that, too, Emperor."

  "No. I’ll do it myself."

  Withool bowed. "Surely the Emperor should be spared such a task."

  "I said I’ll do it." Dybo looked up at the statue of Lends standing on the far side of the room. "I’m the only one who understands what it’s like to lose a member of your … family."

  The Dasheter

  The divers and stilts weren’t the only vertebrates down here at the bottom of the world. Toroca and Babnol managed to collect many specimens as the days went on.

  They were all different.

  But they all had one thing in common.

  They were all — every last one of them — based on the wingfinger body plan.

  It was even-night; the night Toroca was supposed to be awake. But it was far, far too cold to go on deck after dark. He sat in his cabin, lamp spluttering, going over his notes and the intricate sketches he’d made.

  Scooters had all but lost their wings. They shot around the ice surface, using their powerful hind feet to propel themselves.

  Shawls were tall and thin and stood like trees rooted in the ice, wrapping their bodies in cloaks made of their thick rubbery wings.

  Skimmers used their wings to glide over the ice. They never rose more than a tiny distance off its surface, but carried by the wind they managed to cover huge distances, their broad mouths hanging wide open, gulping down insects that hopped along the snow.

  Lancers had only the incredibly elongated fingers, with no wing membranes attached. The final finger bone was tapered to a sharp point. In lightning movements, lancers used these to spear fish swimming near the surface. Toroca had even seen one lancer simultaneously spear separate fish on both its left and right fingers, then nibble the still-thrashing meals off the skewers, alternating bites between them.

  Anchors — so named because their beaks and skull crests gave them the appearance of a sailing ship’s holdfast — had lost their arms altogether but still had the breastbones that betrayed their wingfinger affinities.

  Wingfingers. Every single one.

  How they got here was obvious … unless you thought about it.

  After all, wingfingers could fly, so they’d simply come here from Land, perhaps thousands of kilodays ago.

  Except.

  Except that many of these wingfingers could not fly. Anchors had no wings; divers had flippers instead of wings; stilts and shawls and scooters had forelimbs useless for flight.

  All right, then. They swam here from Land.

  But the stilts couldn’t do that; as far as Toroca could tell, they could barely swim at all. And, besides, if these creatures could swim that great distance, why did none of them ever come back to Land? Why was every one of these animals completely unknown?

  They must have flown here.

  They must have.

  And then…

  Changed.

  Changed!

  Toroca shook his head. Madness! An animal cannot change from one thing to another…

  And yet. And yet. And yet.

  Apparently they had.

  It baffled him, but he would figure it out. He would.

  He looked out the single porthole, patterns of frost crisscrossing its surface, the leather curtain folded back like a flying reptile’s wing.

  A new day was dawning.

  Capital City

  Dybo found himself making the hike out to Rockscape for the second time recently. It was a warm day, insects buzzing, wingfingers wheeling overhead, a silvery haze turning the sky almost blue. As he approached the arrayed boulders, Dybo’s claws leapt out.

  Afsan, Cadool, and even Gork were prone on the ground. For one horrible moment, Dybo thought that they, too, had been murdered, but at last Gork, ever vigilant, lifted its head and tasted the air with its forked tongue. Cadool awoke a moment later, with a yawn. He clamped the side of his muzzle to indicate silence, and walked with his loping gate to join the Emperor, several tens of paces from where Afsan lay.

  "He’s sleeping," whispered Cadool. "It’s the first time in many days that he’s slept so soundly."

  Dybo bent his neck to look up at the lanky Cadool. "There’s been another murder," he said simply.

  Cadool’s tail swished. "Who?"

  "Yabool."

  "I’ll wake him," said Cadool.

  "No, perhaps he should sleep. There’s nothing he can do."

  Cadool shook his head. "Forgive me, Your Luminance, but it’s like the hunt. The quarry will get away if the trail grows cold. I know Afsan will be angry if he’s not told at once."

  It was not wise to be too close to one who was waking up. Standing where he was, Cadool shouted out, "Afsan!"

  A threat, a challenge. Even from here, Dybo and Cadool could see Afsan’s claws leap out. The savant lifted his head, opened his jaws to show sharp teeth. And then it passed. Claws slid back into their sheaths. "Cadool?"

  "Afsan, Emperor Dy-Dybo is here. He needs to speak to you."

  Afsan pushed up off the ground. Still slightly groggy, he leaned back on his tail for a moment to steady himself, then walked in the direction he’d thought Cadool’s voice had come from. Normally, Afsan had impeccable hearing, but having just awoken he was heading at a tangent to the course he should have taken. Cadool and Dybo walked over to intercept him, although, of course, each came no closer than about five paces from the other.

  "Ho, Afsan," said Dybo. "I cast a shadow in your presence."

  "And I in yours. You need to see me?"

  "Yes, my friend. Lean back on your tail, please."

  Afsan did so, a stable tripod stance.

  "Afsan, there’s been another murder. Your son Yabool is dead."

  Afsan did stagger visibly, but his tail held him upright. "Yabool…" he said. "The same way?"

  Dybo nodded. "The same."

  "I must examine the place where it occurred."

  "Of course," said Dybo. "Are you ready?"

  "I’ll never be ready," said Afsan softly. "But this must be done."

  The three of them walked silently back to the city, Cork padding along behind.

  The details differed, of course, but the overall picture was the same. Yabool had been lying on a dayslab, the angled piece of marble overhanging a worktable. The slab had supported his torso as he’d worked, but his neck and head had extended past the end of the stone pallet. His neck had been cut from the side, and a deluge of blood had completely covered the top of the desk. The mirror fragment was smaller this time, but although it had cracked, it was still in one piece, lying on the tabletop, fused to it by a crust of dried, flaking blood. A piece of wooden frame ran along two adjacent sides of the fragment. The wood, as before, looked like hamadaja.

  Yabool had been killed some time ago — perhaps yesterday, perhaps even the day before. The crust of
blood on the floor showed a couple of footprints, but they’d been badly distorted by the swishing of a tail through the mess.

  On the way to Yabool’s apartment, Afsan, Cadool, and Dybo had had to pass near Gathgol’s establishment, so they had brought him along as well.

  Gathgol used his claws to pry the mirror out of the crust of blood. "We’re in luck," he said, holding the mirror up to a lamp flame. "There is a maker’s mark this time. ’Hoo-Noltith, Chu.’ "

  "Chu’toolar," said Afsan.

  "That’s right," said Gathgol. "As I’d suspected."

  Cadool, Gathgol, and Dybo scoured the scene for further clues, while Afsan stood by, listening intently to their running commentaries.

  "This one would be a lot harder to pull off than the last," said Gathgol.

  "How do you mean?" said Afsan.

  "Well, Haldan had been seated on a stool, facing a wall, her back to the room. It would not have been too difficult to approach her from the rear. But this dayslab is quite central in the room, and so Yabool would have had quite a wide field of view. Either he was very absorbed in what he was writing — his left middle claw is covered with ink, so that is doubtless what he was doing — or else his assailant approached with great stealth."

  "What had Yabool been writing?" asked Afsan.

  "I’m afraid we may never know," said Gathgol. "His piece of writing leather was completely covered with blood, and, as if that weren’t bad enough, his pots of ink and solvent have been knocked over and spilled upon the sheet. He might have been quite intent on the work, but there’s no way to tell."

  "And if he was not intent, then the killer approached…"

  "With stealth," said Gathgol. "You know, like a hunter."

  "A hunter," repeated Afsan.

  "That’s right."

  "I can’t imagine a hunter committing murder," said Cadool. "The hunt purges feelings of violence and aggression."

  "Usually," said Afsan, perhaps remembering his own few, spectacular hunts. He looked in the direction of Gathgol’s voice. "A hunter, you say?"

  Gathgol nodded. "It’s a possibility."

  "A hunter," Afsan said again, filing away the idea in a corner of his mind. "Any other possibilities?"