Fossil Hunter

  Toroca’s tail swished; he was slightly hurt. “Well,” he said, “if there’s anything I can do—you know I’m not completely without influence.”

  She bowed slightly. “Indeed. But even Dy-Dybo himself—or whoever succeeds him in this mad challenge—couldn’t do anything about what’s troubling me, I’m afraid. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” No blue; Toroca relaxed somewhat. “It’s just that I have to be on my own for a bit.”

  “Where are you going?”

  A direct question. Babnol was silent for a few moments, then said, “I don’t know. Perhaps the Shanpin foothills.”

  “The foothills! No Pack roams there; it’s all scorched ground and basalt.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ll be all alone.”

  “That’s right, too.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Toroca faintly.

  “No,” she said after a few heartbeats. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

  She turned and walked away, tail swishing sadly.

  When Afsan and Novato had first met, Novato had worked in a small room in the ruins of an ancient temple to the hunter Hoog. Although Var-Keenir and a few other mariners prized her far-seers, her work had largely been considered unimportant. Novato’s home Pack of Gelbo, in distant Fra’toolar, had tolerated her labors, for although her far-seers brought little in trade, the visits from mariners meant great ships came to the tiny port, making available goods that otherwise would have been rare.

  Now, though, she lived in the Capital. Here she was director of the exodus, a minister of the throne, and confidante to the Emperor. Instead of one room, she had an entire building and the largest staff of any ministry, a staggering eighteen people.

  When she’d become a member of Dybo’s court, Novato had been given a new cartouche. It was carved in intricate detail on the door to her workshop. The upper part showed a far-seer tube in profile. Beneath that was a diagram showing the truth about the universe, with Land a single continent on the far side of a moon of a giant planet that was covered with bands of cloud. And beneath that, a sailing ship, with double-diamond hulls, moving freely through space. A cartouche was normally carved with a raised oval lip around it, but for Novato’s the artist had left gaps in the border, indicating that Novato’s work was not constrained by the traditional borders of the world.

  It was bad form to arrive at any confined area in a group. Such an intrusion might trigger the territorial reflex. Afsan therefore went up to Novato’s office door alone, scratched on the signaling plate, and was granted permission to enter.

  “Greetings, Afsan,” said Novato, pushing off her dayslab to stand up.

  “Hello, Novato.”

  On her desk were sketches of wingfinger and insect wings. Little model wingfingers made of wood and bits of leather were everywhere; some seemed quite sophisticated, others, perhaps older attempts, were being used simply as paperweights. One wall was covered with intricate charcoal sketches of fossil birds. On tabletops around the office were mounted specimens and skeletons of the fauna Toroca had brought from the Antarctic.

  Novato hurried to move a pile of books that had been sitting in the middle of the floor, lest Afsan trip over them. “What brings you here?” she said, her voice warm. “It’s always a pleasure, of course, but I didn’t expect you.”

  Afsan’s tone was neutral, perhaps even timid. “I have a question to ask.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Cadool must join us.”

  “Cadly is here, too?” “Cadly” was Novato’s nickname for Cadool. “Cadool” meant “hunter of runningbeasts,” but “Cadly” meant “long of leg,” something Cadool definitely was. “I’ve missed him. By all means, bring him in.”

  Afsan went to the door and called for Cadool. A few moments later, he appeared.

  “Cadly!” declared Novato.

  Cadool nodded concession. “It is good to see you, Novato.”

  “I’m so glad the two of you have come,” said Novato. “Coordinating the exodus keeps me very busy, I’m afraid. I’m sorry I haven’t called on either of you lately.”

  “It is good to see you,” said Afsan.

  “I’m sorry, Afsan,” said Novato. “I’ve been babbling. You said you had a question for me?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was silence for a time. Novato’s teeth touched in laughter. “That silence you’re hearing is me looking at you expectantly, my dear.”

  “I’m sorry. The question is…” Afsan hesitated, his tail swishing back and forth nervously. “The question is, did you kill Yabool or Haldan?”

  “And this silence,” said Novato, no levity in her tone at all, “is me glaring at you. What moves you to ask such a thing?”

  “What always moves me,” said Afsan. “The need to expose the truth.”

  “And what is Cadool”—no friendly sobriquets now—“doing here?”

  Afsan’s voice was small. “He is here to see whether you are lying.”

  Novato’s voice had a tone Afsan had never heard in it, the sharp edge of anger. “Why are you doing this?”

  Afsan thought. Finally: “I do it out of…out of affection for our children.”

  “And what about affection for me?”

  Afsan’s voice carried a note of surprise. “That is a given.”

  “A given? Then why treat me this way?”

  Afsan paused. “Cadool, perhaps you would leave us?”

  “No,” said Novato sarcastically. “Stay. It’s obvious why you’ve brought him along, Afsan: to assure you that my words are honest.”

  Afsan nodded, then swiveled his muzzle toward his assistant. “Stay, Cadool. But not for that reason. Rather, stay because we agreed that friends should share. I make no secret of my feelings for Novato.” He paused, as if seeking the right words, then turned back toward where he’d heard Novato’s voice coming from. “Novato, I abjure pity, but I suspect you know it’s not easy being blind.” His tail swished back and forth slowly. “Falling asleep is—is strange for me.” He gestured in her direction. “For you, and for Cadool, it’s a slipping from light into darkness; you close your eyes, shut out the world, and drift into unconsciousness.”

  He paused again, phrasing what he was about to say in his mind. “But I am always in darkness. When I change from being awake to being asleep, there is no real sensory change, no shutting out. I—I need something else, some substitute for the drawing of eyelids over orbs, for changing from day to night. For me, every night that I do sleep, I do so thinking of you, Novato.”

  Afsan’s voice was warm, but with a melancholy tinge to the words. “As I lie on my belly, wishing to sleep, I recall your face. Oh, I know it’s your face of sixteen kilodays ago, the one and only time I ever saw you, a younger, less interesting face than I’m sure you have now, but it’s you nonetheless.” He paused. “I can still describe it in detail, Novato. Other images I have trouble recalling, but not you, not your face, not the line of your muzzle, the shape of your eyes, the delicate curve of your earholes. It’s that face that calms me each night, that helps me let go of the burdens of the day, and, for just a little while, forget that I cannot see.”

  He dipped his torso in a concessional bow. “You are special to me, Novato, more special than I can say, and that time we spent together, discovering truths both about ourselves and about the universe, was the happiest, indeed, the only truly happy, time of my life.”

  He shook his head. “To hurt you is to hurt myself. It pains me to ask the question I have asked, but suspicion has fallen on you. It was not I who thought of you, and I tell you that I reacted with indignation, too, when your name was suggested. I came to you first, before any others, not because I see any possibility of you being the perpetrator, but because I couldn’t bear, even for a few days, that others might think you capable of such crimes. So I ask the question to exonerate you, and Cadool’s declarations about your reply—not to me, for I need no proof of your honesty, but to others
—will clear you of suspicion for all time.”

  Novato’s breath came out in a long, whispery sigh. “And you, Afsan? Surely if I’m suspected, so are you.”

  “Doubtless this is true, although there are those who say a blind person couldn’t have killed in the way that was used. On the other hand, although no one has raised the point, I have not hunted for kilodays, and it is, after all, through the hunt that we supposedly purge our emotions of anger. Perhaps one such as myself, a great hunter in his youth but now no longer able to join in a pack, might indeed need another outlet for his hostility.”

  “Then will you answer the same question, Cadool to be the witness to the answers for both of us?”

  “I will. Gladly.”

  “Very well. Ask your question again.”

  “Did you, Wab-Novato, kill Haldan or Yabool?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any knowledge of who did?”

  “No.”

  “Very well.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask Cadool if my muzzle turned blue?”

  “I know,” said Afsan, “that it did not.” A pause. “Now ask me.”

  Novato’s tone was one of appeasement. “I’m sorry, Afsan, I didn’t mean to doubt you. You are very special to me as well.”

  “You should ask the question, though. No one has yet.”

  “I—”

  “Consider it a favor.”

  Novato swallowed. “Did you, Sal-Afsan, kill Yabool or Haldan?”

  “I did not.”

  There was silence for a time. Finally, Novato exhaled noisily. “Well,” she said warmly, “I’m glad that is over.”

  “I wish it were,” said Afsan sadly. “I’m afraid I still have to ask that question of several other people I also care deeply about.”

  The time had come for Babnol and Toroca to say goodbye. She wore a backpack made of thunderbeast hide that contained a few things she might need on her journey. Food wouldn’t be a problem, though. She would kill what she needed along the way.

  The sun, white and fiercely bright, was crawling its way up from the horizon. Babnol bowed. “I’ll rendezvous with you at Fra’toolar in a hundred days or so,” she said.

  Toroca said nothing at first. He watched a golden wingfinger move across the purple sky. Then: “Don’t go.”

  “I have to.”

  “No,” he said. “You don’t.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m…” Her voice trailed off.

  “You’re changing,” supplied Toroca. “You’re coming into heat.”

  She swung her muzzle to face him directly. “How do you know that?”

  “Your age. Your manner.” Toroca shrugged amiably. “Your smell.”

  Babnol’s muzzle tipped down. “Then you can understand why I must go.”

  “No,” said Toroca. “I don’t.”

  She looked off into the distance. “Regardless, the decision is mine. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “Yes, you do, Babnol.” Toroca’s tone was gentle. “I’m your friend.”

  At last Babnol nodded. “All right. Soon, as you say, I will feel the urge to call for a mate.”

  “Very soon, I’d warrant,” said Toroca.

  “Exactly. And I do not want to couple.”

  Toroca’s inner eyelids fluttered. “But why not?”

  Babnol spread her arms. “Look at me. Look at me. I’m ugly.” A pause. “Deformed.”

  “I don’t know what—” But Toroca stopped when he felt the warming that meant his muzzle was flushing blue. He tried again. “I don’t consider you ugly.”

  “I’m a freak,” said Babnol. “A freak of nature. This pastak nose horn.” The swear word was one rarely spoken.

  “I find it…” Toroca sought the appropriate word. “…intriguing.”

  Babnol lifted her muzzle again, and at last Toroca understood that the gesture was not one of haughty arrogance, but rather a subconscious desire to reduce the apparent size of the horn. “It has not been intriguing to go through life with this defect, Toroca.”

  Toroca nodded. “Of course. I didn’t mean to minimize your experience.”

  “You yourself told me once about the work that was done with lizard breeding,” she said. “It demonstrated the inheritance of characteristics.”

  Toroca looked blank.

  “Don’t you see? My offspring might indeed be similarly deformed. I can’t risk that. I have to go away, to be alone, until after the mating urge passes. Then I can safely return to the company of others for another full year—for eighteen kilodays.”

  “One is never completely safe. My mother was only sixteen kilodays old—well shy of her first year—when she was moved to mate with Afsan.”

  “The risk is minimal at other times. It’s monumental now.” She paused again, then, wistfully: “I must leave right away. Goodbye, Toroca.”

  “No, wait,” he said.

  She hesitated, and, for a moment, it seemed as though she really did not want to go.

  “You’re not a freak,” said Toroca. “You’re special.”

  “Special,” she repeated, as if trying the word on for size. But then she shook her head.

  “Look,” he said, “you know about my theory of evolution. It’s not the things that make us the same that increase our survivability. It’s the differences, the things that make us unique.”

  “I’ve listened to you more attentively than that,” said Babnol. “A novelty can be either good or bad. A difference is just as likely—more likely—to be a bad thing.”

  “Any difference that lets an individual survive to breeding age is, by definition, beneficial, or, at the very least, neutral.” He adopted a teacher’s tone. “To artificially remove yourself from the breeding population is unnatural.”

  “All of our selection is unnatural, Toroca. The bloodpriests do for us what nature can no longer do: select who should live and who should die. It’s only because all egglings have birthing horns that the bloodpriest of my Pack did not realize I was defective. I’m just compensating for the error of that selection process.”

  “You worry about the bloodpriest’s culling?” said Toroca.

  “I suspect many people do. Seven died so that I might live. Only you, you who never underwent the culling, are probably immune from the self-doubt engendered by that process. I suspect that that is much more the real reason why people rarely speak of the bloodpriests. We avoid the topic not because it’s bloody—we’re carnivores, after all!—but rather because it makes is wonder about whether we really were the ones who should have lived.”

  Toroca said nothing about how he, too, had wondered about the culling of the bloodpriest, how he had suspected that he would have not been allowed to live. He felt closer to Babnol ever.

  “But you’re special,” he said again. And then, bolder, “Special to me.”

  She looked up, perplexed.

  “I like you, Babnol.”

  “And I like you, Toroca.”

  “I mean I like you a lot. I was hoping we could spend more together.”

  “We already spend a good tenth of each day together, Toroca. That’s more than I spend with anyone, and, to be honest, as much as I can take. We need our privacy.”

  Toroca shook his head. “Others need their privacy. I don’t.”

  Her inner eyelids fluttered in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t feel oppressed when others are around. I don’t feel claustrophobic, trapped.” He indicated the space between them. “I don’t feel territoriality.”

  Babnol tipped her head to the side. “You don’t?”

  “Nope. Never have.”

  “But that’s—forgive me—that’s sick.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “No territoriality, you say?”

  “None.”

  “What’s it like?” she said.

  “I have nothing to compare it with.”

  “No, I guess not. But, then, how
do you react if other people are around you?”

  “If they are people I like, I want them to be closer.”

  “But they move away.”

  Wistful: “Yes.”

  “How does that feel?”

  “It hurts,” he said softly.

  “I can’t imagine that,” Babnol said.

  “No. I don’t suppose anyone else can.”

  “And you want to be close to me?”

  “Especially to you.” He took a step toward her. “There are perhaps seven paces between us now.” He took another step. “And now six.” Another. “Five.”

  Babnol stood up straight, taking her weight off her tail.

  “I could come even closer,” he said.

  “How close?”

  He stepped again, and then, boldly, once more. “Very close.”

  Only three paces between them now. Toroca felt his heart racing. Three paces: much greater proximity than protocol would normally allow, and yet, still a tremendous gulf. He lifted his left foot, moved another pace nearer.

  Babnol’s claws popped out. “No closer,” she said, an edge in her voice. She shook her head. “What you’re saying is alien to me. Alien to all of us.”

  Toroca spoke softly. “I know.”

  Babnol looked uncomfortable. She backed off two paces. “I have to go.”

  “No,” said Toroca. “Stay.”

  “Soon,” she said, “my body will be crying for a mate. I to be alone when that happens. I have to go.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” said Toroca. “A horn on your face? What significance does that have?” He spread his arms. “And there’s nothing wrong with me. I see what territoriality has done to our people. We’d be better off if more were free of it.”

  Babnol said nothing.

  “Stay. When it comes time for you to call for a mate, call for me.” He looked directly at her. “I would be honored.”

  More silence from Babnol.

  “The bloodpriests are currently in disrepute, so I hear, but even if they are reinstated and only one eggling gets to live from our clutch, I’m sure it would be special. Perhaps it would have a horn throughout life. Perhaps it would be less territorial than most. Those are wonderful things, not things to be avoided.”