They got to their feet and walked toward the setting sun.
Fra’toolar
It turned out that the part of the ship they’d been exploring wasn’t the major part at all. Only a tiny fraction of the ship’s bulk had been exposed by blasting away a portion of the cliff face. Much, much more of it was still buried in the rock. To get to the other section, one had to pass through another one of those rooms with doors at either end.
Everyone stood well back as Toroca, having taken a deep breath, operated the second door. But this time the air that spilled out, having been locked in for who knows how long, didn’t choke them, although it did have a musty smell about it. Toroca walked in and found an aisle as tall as ten old Quintaglios and so long that it would take a daytenth to walk its length.
Lining the corridor were rectangular chambers. Some were tiny, others huge. They were packed tightly together like a quilt, with each opening a different size, but all interlocking so that no space was wasted. Each chamber was fronted with glass—or perhaps it was that strange transparent material used to cover the lighting tubes.
And within—
Within were animals.
All dead. Some had decayed completely to dust, others were just piles of bones, others still retained their skin intact.
Toroca recognized some of them. Sort of, that is. Turtles and lizards and snakes looked just like, or very similar to, the ones he knew. But others were, well, wrong. Here, in one of the biggest chambers, was a shovelmouth, lying on its side, its head crest unlike any Toroca had ever seen before, with a large blade-like front part and a short spike pointing to the rear.
And here, a hornface with down-turned horns, like melted wax, unlike any hornface Toroca had ever heard of.
And here, the bones of another hornface, but this one with the frill of bone over the neck simply outlined, with huge hollow spaces in the middle.
And here, an armorback. A—it came to him, staggering him back on his tail—an armorback like one of those whose fossils are found only in the oldest rocks.
But most of the specimens were birds.
Birds!
Known only from the fossil record, and even there, only exceedingly rarely. Indeed, Toroca had to stare at the gaudily colored specimens for what seemed an eternity before he realized what they were. Some of the fossils of them showed a frayed body covering, and these specimens were wrapped in things that looked a bit like fern leaves, densely packed with branches.
Some of the birds had long toothy beaks, like those of many wingfingers, and some had thick beaks with no teeth at all, and some had rounded bodies and wide, flat prows, like the prows of shovelmouths.
But they were all birds.
Completely unknown in the world today.
Birds.
At last, Wab-Babnol returned to join the Geological Survey team in Fra’toolar. She had come via boat—one not nearly as large or famous as the Dasheter, though. Toroca ordered the same boat loaded up with bird specimens to be taken back to Novato in the Capital.
As soon as he got close enough to Babnol to smell her pheromones, Toroca knew it was over. Her mating time had passed; barring unusual circumstances, she would be free of the urge until another full year had elapsed, another eighteen kilodays, another quarter of her lifetime.
“Welcome back,” said Toroca, both sad and glad at the same time.
Babnol bowed deeply. “Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Better,” she said, and, a moment later, again: “Better.”
Toroca nodded. “It’s good to see you again.” He wanted to close the distance between them, to reach out, to—
And then Babnol did the incredible. She stepped toward him, closing the gap, and, with what was clearly a great deal of effort, reached up with her left hand and clasped his arm. “Thank you,” she said, still squeezing warmly, “thank you very much.”
Toroca’s heart soared. “It’s wonderful to have you back, my friend,” he said.
“And it’s wonderful to be back with you,” she said.
She held the position for five whole beats more, then stepped back three paces.
Toroca beamed.
Chapter 42
Capital City
The room was dark. A leather curtain undulated gently like a wingfinger’s flapping wing in the cool breeze from the half-open window. It was odd-night, the night on which most adults slept, but Afsan had always been out of synch with the mainstream.
The hinges of the door were well-oiled, and Afsan’s entrance had done nothing to disturb the apartment’s sleeping occupant. Afsan had only been here once or twice, but he knew the room’s layout well enough and had no trouble making his way across the living area and into the sleep chamber. As he entered the latter, he placed his leather carrying case in the open doorway.
Afsan knew there would be a candle holder on a small stand next to the part of the floor upon which the occupant was sleeping. He could hear the gentle hissing of open-mouth breathing. Afsan bent down and, after a moment, found the holder and picked it up.
Then he crossed the room, found the stool he’d been looking for, swung his leg and tail over it, and made himself comfortable. At last he spoke, not loudly, but with a firm tone. “Drawtood.”
There was no response. Afsan tried again. “Drawtood.”
This time he heard the sound of a body stirring on the floor, followed by a sharp intake of breath as Drawtood apparently suddenly woke and realized he was not alone.
“Who’s there?” Drawtood said, his voice thick and dry. Afsan heard sounds of exertion as Drawtood pushed himself up off the floor.
“It’s me, Afsan.”
Suddenly there was a note of concern in the voice. “Afsan? Are you all right? What’s happened?”
“Easy, my son. Easy. Lie back down. I just want to talk.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s the middle of the night. The eighth daytenth.”
There was a sound of rummaging. “I can’t seem to find my candle,” said Drawtood.
“I have it. You won’t need it. Lie down and talk to your father.”
“What’s wrong?” said Drawtood.
“That’s what I’m hoping to learn from you.”
“What do you mean?” The voice was wary. Afsan could tell that the speaker was still standing.
“Things are not going well, are they, Drawtood?”
“I want my candle.”
“No,” said Afsan softly. “We’ll talk on an even footing, both in darkness. Tell me your problems, son.”
“I don’t have any problems.”
Afsan was silent, waiting to see if Drawtood would volunteer anything further. A great length of time passed in silence, save for the whispering breeze. At last, Drawtood did speak again. “Why don’t you go, now?”
“I know about Haldan. And Yabool.”
“Their deaths have upset us all, I’m sure.”
“I know that you killed them, Drawtood.”
“You’re distraught, Afsan.” The voice had risen slightly in pitch. “Please, let me take you back to your home.”
“You killed them.”
Claw-ticks across the bare part of the floor.
“I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you,” said Afsan. “Pal-Cadool and five imperial guards are waiting outside your front door.”
Claw-ticks going in the opposite direction. “And other guards are waiting outside your windows, of course.” Afsan said it calmly, as if an offhand comment about the weather.
“Let me leave.”
“No. You have to talk to me.”
“I—I don’t want to.”
“You have no choice. Why did you kill them?”
“I admit nothing.”
“I am blind, Drawtood. My testimony would never stand. Admitting it to me is no confession, for I could never assert that your muzzle didn’t change color when you said it.” Afsan paused to let that sink in. Then: “Tell me
why you killed them.”
“I didn’t kill them.”
“We both know that you did. A scientist should never make assumptions, Drawtood. I did—I assumed none of my children could be responsible. I was wrong.”
“Wrong,” repeated Drawtood softly.
“You killed your sister Haldan and your brother Yabool.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to have siblings,” said Drawtood.
“No, I don’t,” said Afsan. “Tell me.”
“It’s like having to face yourself every day. Except it’s not you. It’s someone who looks like you and thinks like you, but not exactly like you.”
Afsan nodded in the darkness. “Broken mirrors. Of course. I understand the choice of implement now.”
“Implement?”
“The device used for the murders.”
“I did not commit the murders, Afsan.”
“I can’t see your muzzle, Drawtood, but others will ask you that same question, and they will be able to see it. Do you wish to lie to me?”
“I did not—”
“Do you wish to lie to your father?”
Drawtood was silent for a time, and when he spoke again his voice was very small. “Only one of us children should have lived, anyway.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Drawtood.
“Didn’t you?” said Afsan.
“I—I was just putting things back the way they should have been.”
“It’s not for any of us to say who should live and who should die. The bloodpriests alone may choose that.”
“But they made a mistake. They let your eight offspring live because they thought you were The One, the hunter foretold by Lubal. But you aren’t.”
“No, I’m not.”
“So don’t you see?” There was a note of pleading in the voice now. “They made a mistake. I was just putting things right.”
“Would you have killed all of them, then?”
“It had to be done. Brothers and sisters—they’re demons. Shades of yourself, but twisted, mocking.”
“And you would have been the only one left alive?”
“If they hadn’t gotten me first.”
“Pardon?”
“They were thinking the same thing. I know they were. Dynax and Galpook, Kelboon and Toroca, Haldan and Yabool. They were all thinking the same thing. If it wasn’t me doing the killing it would have been one of them.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know, Afsan. You don’t have brothers or sisters. But look at Dybo! Look at how his sibling turned on him. It preys on your mind, knowing there’s someone out there who is you, but not quite, who thinks like you, whom people mistake for you.”
“Did any of them make an attempt on your life? Threaten you in any way?”
“Of course not. But I could tell what they were thinking. I could see it in their faces. They wanted me dead. Self-defense! It was just self-defense.”
“So you would have left yourself the only one alive.”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Toroca, maybe. Maybe I would have let him be the one. He was always kind to me. Maybe I’d have killed the other five, then taken my own life.” He was quiet for several beats. “Maybe.”
“You’ve committed a crime,” said Afsan. “What do we do now?”
“It was not a crime.”
“You must receive justice.”
“You, of all people, shouldn’t believe in justice. You were blinded by imperial order! Was that justice?”
Afsan’s turn to be silent for a time. “No.”
“I won’t submit to them.”
“You must. You must come with me.”
“You can’t stop me.”
A hard edge came into Afsan’s tone. “Yes, I can, Drawtood. If need be. You are alive because sixteen kilodays ago, they mistook me for The One. I was the greatest hunter of modern times. You can’t get past me.”
“You are blind.”
“I hear your breathing, Drawtood. I can smell you. I know exactly where you are standing, exactly what you are doing. You don’t have a chance against me here in the dark.”
“You’re blind…”
“Not a chance.”
Silence, save for the wind.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Afsan.”
“You have hurt me already. You’ve killed two of my children.”
“They had to die.”
“And now you must face the consequences of your actions.”
Another lengthy quiet. “What will they do to me?”
“There are no laws governing murder, and so no modern penalties are prescribed. But there were penalties in ancient times for taking another’s life outside of dagamant.” A pause. “I will urge compassion,” Afsan said at last.
“Compassion,” repeated Drawtood. “Have I no alternatives?”
“You tell me.”
“I could take my own life.”
“I would be honor-bound to try to stop you.”
“If you knew what I was doing.”
“Yes. If I knew.”
“But if I were to kill myself quietly, while we were talking…”
“I might not realize it until too late.”
“How does one kill oneself quietly?”
“Poison might be effective.”
“I have none.”
“No, of course not. On another matter, there are some documents in my carrying case that you might find interesting. I’ve left it by the doorway. Can you see it?”
“It’s very dark.”
“Tell me about it,” said Afsan, but there was no clicking of teeth.
“Yes,” said Drawtood, “I see it.”
“Please go get them.”
Ticking claws. “Which compartment are they in?”
“The main one. Oh, but be careful. There’s a vial of haltardark liquid in there, too. It’s a cleaning compound for far-seer lenses. Your mother asked me to get some for her; it’s quite deadly. You’d do well not to touch it.”
A long silence. “Yes,” said Drawtood. Silence again. Then: “The vial has a symbol on it. It’s hard to see in this light…a drop shape, and the outline of some animal lying on its side.”
“That’s the chemist’s symbol for poison.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You do now.”
“Afsan…?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.”
And that was followed by the longest silence of all.
Chapter 43
Musings of The Watcher
I watched it happen, helpless to intervene.
Everything had gone flawlessly so far. The final Jijaki ark, the Ditikali-ot, had traversed the light-years to the target without incident. It had been timed to arrive a few Crucible centuries after the previous arks, bringing fauna specimens that would do better after the rest of the animals had been established.
Sliding down the star’s gravity well had gone as planned, and a double-loop maneuver braked the craft first by swinging around the gas-giant fifth planet, then around the target moon. The Ditikali-ot settled into a stationary orbit around the moon, holding position directly above the great watery rift that separated the two landmasses, landmasses that would eventually jam together into one as convective heat drove their respective plates closer and closer.
The Ditikali-ot consisted of a habitat module made of super-strong blue kiit held by a metal superstructure between the funnel-shaped ramscoop at one end and the fusion exhaust cone at the other. Restraining clips retracted, allowing the habitat to separate from the stardrive portion of the ship. The precious cargo from the Crucible, and the entire Jijaki crew—the last survivors of that race, now that war and old age had taken all their kin—began to enter the atmosphere.
Everything went fine until the explosion. The habitat careened wildly, spinning around its long axis, and plummeted to
the ground.
One Jijaki did survive the crash, although she was badly injured. She made it out onto the ground, along with her handheld computer, an expensive model also made of kiit. The area was too moist for fossilization: her space suit, then her body, rotted away, but the indestructible artifact eventually came to be buried, as did the massive ark.
The habitat module had crashed not far inland on the western shore of the eastern landmass. If it had hit just a little farther to the west, in the water between the two continents, it would have eventually been subducted as the tectonic plates drove together. But where it did fall, it would probably remain for a very long time.
I had hoped to leave no trace of my handiwork, but the Ditikali-ot was indeed the final ark. I had no way to remove its wreckage, and every last Jijaki was now dead, so none of them could be summoned to clean up the mess.
Fra’toolar
Toroca looked up at the night sky.
He reflected that he was a child of the new universe, conceived by Afsan and Novato in the very moment at which the two of them, pooling what they had learned through her far-seers, came realize the shape of space, the structure of the cosmos.
Before then, the Face of God was an object of veneration, not merely a planet, and the other planets were just points in the night, not distinct spheres. Before then, the moons were something unto themselves, instead of more examples of what the world was—globes spinning around the Face of God. Before then, the rings around the planets Kevpel and Bripel were unknown. Before then, the sky river was thought to be the reflection of the great body of water that Land was said to float upon, instead of, as Toroca himself had seen through lenses, countless stars.
Before then, too, the world was simpler, for it was Afsan’s work, and the work of his master, the great Tak-Saleed, that had demonstrated that the world was doomed, its orbit about the Face too close to be stable.
But now the universe was even more complex, for other beings apparently lived on one of the objects in the night sky, strangers who had visited this world once, long ago, leaving behind one of their ships and, apparently, their cargo of plants and animals.
Did the strangers live on one of the other moons of the Face of God? On Swift Runner? Slowpoke? The Guardian? The thirteen other moons had been observed now for kilodays through the finest far-seers from the tops of the tallest mountains. None seemed to have liquid seas or fertile land.