Toroca made his way down the rest of the stepladder.
Babnol was also gaining her feet. “What is it?” she called to Keenir as he passed. “What’s happening?”
“Quake,” said the old mariner. “You’ll believe the world’s coming to an end after you weather a few of those out here in open water. Quickly now, to your cabin. Aftershocks coming!”
During the many days of the return voyage, Toroca paced the decks of the Dasheter, back and forth and back again, stem to stern, thinking.
An animal changing from one thing to something else. A flying wingfinger becoming a swimming one.
Change.
Evolution.
The idea needed a name, and that was the best one he could think of. In general use, the word meant “unrolling,” or “gradual change.” It certainly seemed appropriate when applied here, to the changing of one form of life into another.
For the change must be gradual, surely. A wingfinger couldn’t go in one generation from having a flying membrane attached to its elongated digit to having a swimming paddle. No, rather, it must happen a little at a time, with wingfingers perhaps swimming on the surface of the water, and those with a thicker membrane being the best paddlers, and therefore getting the most fish. A thick membrane would be an advantage, then, over a thin one, in an environment where swimming was more profitable than flying.
And those that had the advantage would live longer and have more children.
And the children would tend to take after the parents, just as, just as, just as…
Just as Governor Rodlox and Emperor Dybo took after Empress Lends, or, or, or…
Or as I take after Afsan and Novato.
And in each subsequent generation, the favorable trait would become concentrated more and more, until it became the norm.
An entire population of wingfingers with paddles instead of flying membranes.
Or with walking stilts instead of wings.
A selection process, imposed by the environment: a natural selection.
Toroca continued to pace.
Babnol was eighteen kilodays old.
Toroca understood this; knew the significance of the figure.
A year was about eighteen thousand days long.
And, therefore, Babnol was now about one year old.
Toroca felt a little tingling as he contemplated what that meant.
Sexual maturity.
The ripening. The receptivity.
Soon, Babnol would call for a mate.
Very soon.
Toroca had longed after Babnol since shortly after they had first met, and at last he could bear it no more. She was coming close now, down the cramped corridor beneath the decks of the Dasheter. She’d have to squeeze by him in this narrow space to get where she wanted to go. Of course, as was the custom, she would avert her eyes for the brief time during which she would be invading his territory. He was supposed to do the same.
Closer now. Closer. Just a few paces away.
He could smell her pheromones—the normal scent of all Quintaglios; the undercurrent of her femaleness, growing more pronounced day by day as she moved toward receptivity; the subtle tinge that indicated that she hadn’t eaten recently; the slight whiff of abasement at having to encroach on another’s territory.
She looked to one side and stepped abreast of him.
Toroca lifted his arm, ever so slightly, so that the back of his hand slid smoothly, gently, across her flank as she passed.
Her claws slipped out into the light of day, but she said not a word.
Not a word.
Toroca was pacing the decks of the Dasheter again, his theory bothering him.
Yes, evolution explained the bizarre wingfinger-derived life-forms of the south pole. Yes, the mechanism of natural selection could account for their strange adaptations to the aquatic, fish-laden environment there.
But so what?
What relevance did evolution have to life back on Land?
He’d seen in the fossils of the Bookmark layer that all forms of life had emerged simultaneously: reptiles and fish and amphibians and wingfingers. All of them appeared at once.
Evolution had nothing to do with, oh, say, with a fish spontaneously developing a novelty that allowed it to survive for a short time out of water, and that trait being concentrated over the generations, to, for the sake of a wild example, give rise to amphibians.
Oh, it made sense that it could have happened that way, but that’s not the way it did. Fish and amphibians appeared simultaneously in the fossil record. Evolution had nothing to do with their arrival.
Arrival. Oddly appropriate, that word.
Toroca slapped the deck in frustration. He’d figure it out eventually. He knew he would.
And he knew something else, too: that this, not some silly feat of hunting, was what he owed to his father.
Once again it was Biltog who was doing the watch in the lookout’s bucket.
And once again, he let out a shout of “Land ho!”
But this time it was land indeed, not a frozen waste of ice and snow. In fact, it was Land—the word written as a left-facing glyph, instead of a right-facing one, referring specifically to the vast equatorial mass upon which the Fifty Packs roamed.
The Dasheter’s sails snapped in the steady east-west wind. Toroca reflected briefly that he’d gotten used to that sound, and to the groaning of the ship’s timber, and the scraping of claws on wooden decks, and the slapping of waves against the hull. He was so used to them, in fact, that he barely heard them anymore, but thought that their absence might be almost deafening for his first few days back on solid ground.
Although they had departed from Fra’toolar, they were returning to Capital province, at least for a few days, so that they could take on supplies, and so that Toroca could have meetings with the leader of The Family—a left-facing glyph again—and with members of his own family.
The Dasheter continued in toward the shore, the rocky cliffs of Capital province, similar to although not as spectacular as those along the coast of Fra’toolar, towering up ahead of them, and, in the background, the ragged cones of the Ch’mar volcanoes.
The docks were approaching with visible speed.
The Dasheter was singing out its identification call: five loud bells and two deafening drumbeats, then the same sounds again, but softer. Then loudly again, then another soft iteration, over and over as the mighty vessel slipped in next to a vacant pier.
Home, thought Toroca.
Home at last.
Chapter 31
Musings of The Watcher
In this universe, intelligent life perhaps needed more of a hand than I’d been providing so far. At least, that’s what the Jijaki aboard the arks told me. They had learned to peer intently into the structures of things and could see the intertwining double spiral of the acid molecule that controlled life.
Of the dinosaurs that had existed on the Crucible, there had been several kinds with potential. The Jijaki had particularly liked one smallish type that was bipedal, with a horizontally held torso balanced by a stiff whip of a tail. It had giant yellow eyes with overlapping fields of vision and three-fingered hands each with an opposable digit. I agreed these beings had possibilities and had ordered them shifted to another, less-promising target world. I was dubious of their chances, though, because their numbers were already in sharp decline on the Crucible, hinting that they weren’t as ideally suited for the road to sentience as they appeared at first glance.
No, the dinosaurs I had favored most, partly because they’d already had a long and successful history as a group, were tyrannosaurs: large, slope-backed carnivores with great heads and giant teeth. Only one problem, for almost the entire lifetime of this group, their forelimbs had been diminishing until now they were withered and all but useless, with just two clawed fingers on the end of each hand.
The Jijaki read the genetic code of these creatures and found the instructions that had originally produced a th
ird and fourth finger, instructions that now were turned off in the early stages of embryonic development. On some of the individuals being transplanted, the Jijaki edited out the termination sequence.
Jijaki had six little tentacles on the inner surface of each of their cup-shaped manipulators. They believed, therefore, that six was the optimal number of digits. It took much searching, but they finally found buried in the tyrannosaurs’ genetic code the long-dormant instruction for the lost fifth finger that their quadrupedal ancestors had possessed. The Jijaki reactivated that as well. They wanted to go further, adding code for a sixth finger, but I forbade that.
Five, and enough time, should be sufficient.
Prath
The Dasheter had only just docked at Capital City when Toroca was told about the death of his sister Haldan and his brother Yabool. All other concerns—even unpacking the specimens he had carefully collected in the Antarctic—were put aside, and he immediately set out for Prath.
Prath, a half-day’s march southwest of the Capital, was the place of the dead. Here the ground was made up of the tops of lava columns. But the life had gone out of the once-liquid stone, and instead of glowing red, the rock was cool and black. The tops of the columns were each not much bigger than Toroca’s foot. They were polygonal, with straight vertical sides. Most were six-sided, though a few were pentagons and some were squares. Each was a slightly different height from those adjacent to it. In places, one low hexagon of basalt was surrounded by six taller ones, and the declivity had filled with rainwater.
At the southern periphery of the field, the columns rose high into the sky, and their bases were littered with the black rubble of pieces that had broken free and crashed down.
At some places, scraggly green and brown vegetation poked through, growing up from cracks between adjacent polygons. Many of the stone columns were covered with lichens, pale blue and pale green and pale pink.
Haldan’s body was long gone, dragged away by some predator in the night, no doubt.
Yabool’s body had been brought here two days ago.
Wingfingers circled overhead.
They would have their chance, as would the four-footed scavenger lizards that skittered over the black stones. A hunter was part of the food cycle, and Yabool’s body would be given back to the environment.
But not yet. Not until all those who wished to had had the chance to say goodbye.
Toroca moved along the rocks, carefully picking the appropriate stones to step upon. It was difficult terrain, but the people of Capital City had used Prath as a funereal site for generations. Even the body of Larsk had been laid out here.
Toroca was not too surprised to find that someone was already standing over the body. He used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Why, it was Dynax, one of his two remaining sisters. She must have come in from Chu’toolar upon hearing the news.
The basalt plain dipped so that Toroca was looking down upon his sister and the body of his brother from a slight elevation. Dynax’s back was to him, but her unique brown and blue sash, combining the disciplines of hamrak and delbarn, made her easy to identify. Yabool’s body was wrapped tightly in thunderbeast hide, keeping out insects and predators until the five days of mourning were over.
Toroca’s eye was caught by movement amongst the rocks on the opposite side of the depression. It was Drawtood, another brother, approaching from the east. Dynax, standing over the body, looked up. Drawtood bowed concession first in Dynax’s direction, then at Toroca, acknowledging that the other two had arrived first. Dynax, to this point unaware of Toroca’s presence, turned around and, appearing slightly startled, bowed at him in turn.
It was strange, thought Toroca, that the three of us should happen to come here at the same time.
And, yet, is it strange? We’re related.
He wondered what his siblings were thinking. They’d all known Yabool, of course, and would have come to pay final tribute, even if he had not shared their parents.
But was the fact that he was their blood relation significant? It seemed so, somehow, to Toroca. But territoriality kept Quintaglios apart. Dynax would stand silently over the body, then Toroca would, and, at last, Drawtood would.
Each alone with their thoughts.
Chapter 32
Capital City
The ground shook slightly. Like all Quintaglios, Toroca reacted with fear, for trembling ground could mean a landquake. He swung his head around, and soon his fear gave way to a son clicking of teeth. Jogging along, tail flying, gut barely clearing the black soil, was His Luminance himself, the Emperor, Dy-Dybo.
Toroca stepped out of the Emperor’s path and watched him huffing and puffing, make his way around the courtyard.
The arena in which the battle with the blackdeath would occur was modern in construction, of course: few buildings survived more than a generation or two, because of the landquakes. Bui it was built to the ancient specifications, using the traditional stone-cutting techniques outlined in the scrolls of Jostark.
The playing field was diamond-shaped, like a ship’s hull, with the long axis half again the length of the short. The long axis was north-south. Along the two eastern sides of the diamond were layer upon layer of seating compartments. The two banks of compartments joined in an obtuse angle at the center of the playing field. Each compartment was big enough to hold the largest adult. The backs of the compartments were open. Not only did this afford access, but, because they opened into steady wind from the east, they ensured that the pheromones of all the occupants were blown out over the field, instead of back onto the spectators.
Each compartment contained an angled dayslab, set far enough back that the walls between compartments prevented the user from seeing adjacent cells or even the other bank of compartments. From within such a cell, one could comfortably watch a sporting event that lasted many daytenths while maintaining the illusion of splendid, peaceful isolation.
All of this had to be explained to Afsan, who, having come from a small Pack, had never been in an arena before. He ran his hands over an architect’s wooden model. And then, once he had a mental picture, he, Pal-Cadool, and Gork walked the length and breadth of the field, and circumnavigated its perimeter over and over again, so that Afsan could better understand the layout, better formulate a strategy for Emperor Dybo.
Governor Rodlox and his aide, Pod-Oro, entered Capital City’s town square, where merchants traded their goods. “It sure is crowded here,” observed Rodlox.
Oro grunted in reply.
Toroca’s briefing with the Emperor took place in Dybo’s office in the new palace building, a simple, functional room, devoid of opulence or ostentation. Dybo’s desk, cluttered with papers, writing leathers, and scrolls, was situated near one corner. Novato and Afsan attended the meeting, too. They were aware of their kinship with Toroca, of course, but if it carried any special meaning for any of them, there were no outward signs.
“I cast a shadow in your presence,” Toroca said to the Emperor. Dybo acknowledged the greeting with a bow. Novato and Afsan were likewise met with the same traditional words, but they, of lesser station than the Emperor, reciprocated, repeating back same greeting back at Toroca. The four of them slowly drifted to the four corners of the room, maximizing the space between them. Dybo settled onto the dayslab overhanging his cluttered desk. Afsan leaned back on his tail, arms folded across his chest. Novato straddled a small stool.
“What new finds do you have to report?” asked Wab-Novato.
“Well,” said Toroca slowly, “the most interesting was an artifact, a device made of some incredibly strong material, material that was harder than diamond.”
Afsan lifted his muzzle. “There is nothing harder than diamond.”
Toroca nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. But this—thing—was indeed made out of some blue material that was harder than the diamond in my testing kit. And it had been buried in rock for ages, but showed no signs of crushing or damage. The material was virtually inde
structible.”
Novato was leaning forward. “Fascinating!” She turned to Dybo. “You see, Your Luminance? This is exactly the sort of thing I was hoping the Geological Survey would turn up: new resources to make our exodus more feasible.” She swung her muzzle toward her son. “Toroca, where is this specimen?”
He looked at the floor. “It’s lost, I’m afraid. It fell overboard on the Dasheter.”
“Toroca!” There was shock in Novato’s tone. “Your muzzle shows some blue.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, it was thrown overboard.”
“By whom?”
“My assistant, Babnol.” He paused, then, as if the coincidence of praenomens might forestall his mother’s wrath, said, “Wab-Babnol.”
“She’s clearly unstable,” said Novato. “I’ll have her replaced.”
“No,” said Toroca too loudly, and then once more, “No. She and I have discussed the incident. There won’t be a repetition; that I guarantee.”
Novato looked dubious, but nodded. “As you wish.” Seeing that she’d clearly swished her tail into something unpleasant, she sought to move the conversation along. “What else did you discover of value?”
“Well, the south polar cap is, as myth had it, nothing but ice and snow. We now have a map of its coastline, but even that’s of limited use, since it seems that it will change over time as ice cracks and melts. So, no, there’s nothing there, unfortunately, that will be directly useful in getting us off this world. Nothing, that is, except the lifeforms that inhabit it.”
Toroca waited for that to sink in.
“Lifeforms?” said Novato and Afsan simultaneously, and, a moment later, “Lifeforms?” said Dybo.
“Yes.”
“What kind of lifeforms?” asked Novato.
“Wingfingers,” said Toroca. “Except that these wingfingers don’t fly.”
Dybo, no savant himself, took a certain pleasure in catching his intellectuals in errors. “Then they can’t be wingfingers,” he said. “By definition, wingfingers fly.”