Foreigner

  “By the Eggs of Creation, Mokleb, you do have a thing for metaphors.” But Afsan clicked his teeth, as if his ill humor from before was draining away. “But to answer your question, no. There are no clouds in our relationship.” Afsan lowered his voice. “In fact, if you want to know something, I’ll tell you what her last words were to me, before I left her the morning after we had first met. I’d greeted her with the old ‘I cast a shadow in your presence.’ She replied—I cherish these words still, Mokleb—‘We cast shadows in each other’s presence, Afsan. And when we’re together, there is light everywhere and no shadows fall at all.’”

  “That’s beautiful,” said Mokleb.

  “Yes,” said Afsan peacefully. “Yes, it is. And she’s beautiful, too, Mokleb. A delightful person. There’s not much that gives me joy in life, but my relationship with her does. In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: when I’m falling asleep, to clear my mind of the troubles of the day, I conjure up a memory of her face, her beautiful face, the way I remember it from the one time I saw it, all those kilodays ago. No image is more calming for me than the face of Novato.”

  Mokleb dipped her claw into the inkpot. “She is older than you,” she said.

  “By a few kilodays. Irrelevant now, of course; as a percentage of our current ages, the difference is trivial. But back then, when we met in Pack Gelbo, yes, there was something fascinating about a female who was older, who had long since gone through the rites of passage.” A small pause. “And yet, I guess, there’s one rite of passage we went through together.”

  “You’re talking about sex,” said Mokleb.

  Afsan wasn’t offended. “Yes. It was my first time, and hers, I suspect, too. I mean, she was older than me, but she was still shy of eighteen kilodays—one year—the age at which a female normally first gives signs of receptivity.” Afsan sighed contentedly. “Those pheromones, Mokleb. Those wonderful pheromones. It’s almost as if I can smell them now.”

  “No doubt,” said Mokleb, deadpan.

  “I really like Novato,” said Afsan. “She’s so intelligent, so pleasant to be with. She makes it seem like, like, oh, I don’t know, like there’s no territoriality. I don’t mean that she comes physically close to me or to others. Nothing like that. But when I’m with her, there’s a relaxing feeling of not being crowded, of not being wary. The territoriality is still there, I’m sure, but it’s in the background. I’m not—say, here’s an observation you’ll like—I’m not consciously aware of it.” Afsan clicked his teeth. “It’s a comfortable relationship.”

  Mokleb had an array of noncommittal sounds she made, including grunts, the touching of teeth, the tapping of fingerclaws on stone—anything to show, especially to her blind patient, that she was still listening. This time, she lifted her tail a bit and let it gently bounce against the boulder.

  “The relationship between you and me, Mokleb, can be comfortable, too,” Afsan said. “I know it isn’t always, but when things are going well, when we’re talking about our innermost thoughts and there’s no sense of judgment or derision, just gentle acceptance, that reminds me of when I’m with Novato. You came from a good egg, Mokleb.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, I don’t know that much about you, really,” said Afsan. “How old are you?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Say—maybe this is inappropriate, I don’t know—but perhaps someday we should go for a walk or something, just the two of us. Nothing to do with our formal sessions, you understand. Just a chance to get to know each other better.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mokleb. For a time, she simply let the wind waft over herself and blow onto Afsan. “Was there ever an occasion when you weren’t comfortable with your relationship with Novato?”

  “No, although I was sad after I left her in Pack Gelbo. I thought I’d never see her again.”

  “But you did.”

  For one moment, the bitter Afsan was back. “No, not really. I’ve been in her presence since then many times, but I’ve never seen her again.”

  “Of course,” said Mokleb. “Forgive me. Tell me a bit about your reunion.”

  “It was on the Dasheter. There had been riots in the Central Square, the land was shaking, the Ch’mar volcanoes were erupting, and I was badly injured. Pal-Cadool saved my life, spiriting me to safety aboard the Dasheter.”

  “Where you were reunited with Novato.”

  “Yes, and discovered that I had eight children by her. There was a bad moment there, actually. I was lying on the deck, exhausted, and the children were crawling on me. It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful, and then, with a start, I realized that seven of them would have to die. It was the most crushing moment of my life, to have met them only to realize that seven of them would be killed by the bloodpriests.”

  “But then Novato explained to you that the bloodpriests weren’t going to touch your children, that they’d made a special dispensation because they thought you were The One.”

  “Yes. That’s the only time I was ever glad of that silly title. Because I was The One, more than one of them would get to live.”

  “And if it had turned out that Novato’s and your children were not to be spared, that seven of them were to have been killed, how would you have felt?”

  “I don’t want to think about that,” said Afsan.

  “Hypothetically,” said Mokleb. “How would you have felt?”

  A long pause. “At the time, I was reassured by her so quickly that I don’t think I gave it much thought. Today, though…today, I don’t know. I was appallingly naïve as a youngster, Mokleb. Old Cat-Julor, one of the creche mothers back in Carno, made fun of me for that when I paid a return visit there after seeing Novato that first time. I didn’t know what happened to extra babies. I accept the necessity of the bloodpriests, but if Novato had introduced me to my children so that we had made…made impressions on each other, and then she’d told me that seven of them were to be killed, I’d have resented it. I’d have resented her.”

  “I’m sorry to have upset you,” said Mokleb. “Let me take a moment to review my notes. Just relax, Afsan.” Mokleb was quiet for a time, shuffling papers. The steady wind continued.

  After a while, Afsan said, “You know, I do find you fascinating, Mokleb. You’ve got a keen mind.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wish we could spend more time together.” A pause. “Novato and me, I mean.”

  “Of course,” said Mokleb.

  “It is warm today,” said Afsan. And then: “We spend so little time interacting, one with another. There’s so much about other people that we don’t know. I wish…” Afsan trailed off.

  “Yes, Afsan?”

  “I, um, I’ve got to go. Excuse me, please.”

  “Our session isn’t over yet.”

  “I know, but I—I really should be going.”

  “Do you have another appointment?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just—” Afsan pushed up off the boulder. He nonchalantly brought a hand to his neck, feeling the slight puffing of his dewlap. “You shouldn’t have sat upwind of me, Mokleb.”

  “Too many pheromones?” she asked in an innocent tone.

  “I’ve—I’ve got to go,” said Afsan. Gork, who had been sunning himself nearby, took note of the fact that Afsan had risen and padded over to him, rubbing against his legs. Afsan groped for the beast’s harness. “I’ve got to go,” he said again, and with that, he began to walk away.

  An average Quintaglio life span was four years, each of which was eighteen thousand days long. Novato was about to become officially middle-aged, her life half over. And for almost one full year now, she had been wrestling with her emotions.

  She had laid a total of sixteen eggs so far in her life: eight by Afsan, eight by Garios.

  She remembered laying them. For the first clutch, she had gone into the creche in Pack Gelbo, had squatted over the birthing sands, and, one by one, the soft-shelled eggs
had come out. Without any instruction, she’d known exactly how to move, taking a sideways step after each egg had been deposited so that they ended up in a circle, their long axes pointing toward an empty space in the center. Passing the eggs had been painful, but there had been a deep satisfaction in knowing that she was contributing to the ongoing development of the Quintaglio race.

  Other clutches of eggs had already been laid there. As she stood at the exit to the chamber, Novato had looked back one final time into the room. If it weren’t for her fresh footprints across the sand leading to her own clutch, she wouldn’t have been able to identify her eggs.

  She’d never expected to see those eggs again. But word soon came, from one no less famous than Var-Keenir himself, that Afsan might be The One foretold by Lubal. The eggs were rescued from the creche (the creche masters, it turned out, kept meticulous records), and Novato and her clutch were taken aboard the Dasheter to Capital City for a rendezvous with Afsan.

  And so it came that all eight members of that clutch got to live, and that Novato knew exactly who they were. It was a bizarre feeling at first, going against everything she’d been taught. According to the eighteenth sacred scroll, children are the children of the Pack, not of any one individual. But these children were her children; there was no question of who their parents were.

  She had known them all: Kelboon and Toroca, Dynax and Drawtood, Yabool and Galpook, Haldan and poor little Helbark.

  Her children.

  Not just the Pack’s.

  Hers.

  Novato had been moved to mate with Afsan when she was just sixteen (and he was thirteen). For two kilodays, she’d wondered what would happen when she became the normal age for reproduction. Would she be moved to mate again?

  The answer, it turned out, was yes.

  By that time, Novato had taken up residence in Capital City, where she was director of the exodus project. And when Novato found herself calling for a mate again, Afsan, now blind, was far away, touring Land with Emperor Dybo, trying to rally support for the exodus.

  And so she had coupled with Den-Garios. He was a fine fellow, a good fellow, a fellow who in all ways was desirable, a fellow who—and still it hurt to contemplate this—was not Afsan.

  By Garios, she’d laid another eight eggs, this time in Capital City’s much larger creche.

  But there had been nothing special about those eggs. Seven of the eight hatchlings were swallowed whole. The only special treatment they got, because Novato was a minister now in Dybo’s government, was that the culling had supposedly been performed personally by Mek-Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest.

  So one hatchling remained.

  But seventeen clutches of eggs had been hatched at approximately the same time.

  That meant there were seventeen possible candidates for being Novato’s son or daughter.

  Seventeen.

  Statistics were easy to obtain. There were nine females and eight males. But specifics about parentage were unavailable. Novato had thought she might be able to find out by using her newfound authority, assuming records had been kept. Dybo had said that she could issue any orders she deemed necessary. But people would want to know why she required the information and, well, she wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that.

  As the kilodays went by, Novato wondered less and less frequently who her ninth child was, although she did find herself keeping track of the seventeen hatchlings. Two of them died in childhood, one of the same kind of fever that had earlier claimed little Helbark. One more was killed on his first hunt, and two eventually left Capital City for other parts of Land. Still, she followed the lives of the thirteen who remained in the Capital with interest.

  But as Novato approached the end of her second year of life, she found the question of who was her unknown child occupying her thoughts more frequently. Was it Retlas? Unlikely; her light coloring was nothing like Novato’s own. Jidha? No, his wide, moon-like face was unlike either Novato’s or Garios’s. Colboom? Perhaps. He was a gifted artist, as was Novato herself, and his long, drawn-out muzzle was much like Garios’s own. But eventually she’d come to realize that it must be Karshirl, a female structural engineer. It wasn’t just that Karshirl’s body shape and general facial features bore a striking resemblance to Novato’s own. More: Karshirl had the same distinctive and very rare mottling of blue freckles on her back and tail as Novato herself had.

  Novato could request the services of just about anyone for the exodus effort. And so, on a whim, she had sent word to Capital City that Karshirl was needed here, in Fra’toolar.

  It was a crazy thing to do. Sure, they could always use another engineer to help fathom the blue pyramid or to try to puzzle out the functions of the various devices removed from the ark. But to have called Karshirl here was madness. Novato could have no special relationship with her.

  Of course not, Novato kept telling herself. Of course not.

  Not unless Karshirl wanted the same thing.

  Madness. The very idea was insane.

  Or was it?

  Novato had to know.

  A private meeting, a quiet chat.

  Today would be the day. She’d waited long enough.

  Today.

  Novato went looking for her daughter.

  The Others were apparently determined to destroy the Dasheter. A veritable wall of wooden sailing ships had appeared on the horizon. The ships were small by Quintaglio standards—the Others didn’t need to build massive vessels, since they didn’t mind being crowded together.

  The Dasheter began to sail away. Captain Keenir called for Toroca.

  “Tell me what they know about us,” demanded the captain.

  Toroca scratched his jaw. “Not much, I suppose. I talked mostly about mathematics and science.”

  “What about Land itself?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Toroca.

  “Land, boy! What did you tell them about Land?”

  “Nothing, really…”

  “Did you tell them how big it is?”

  “What?”

  “These Others live on a tiny group of islands. Land is thousands of times bigger than that. Did you give any indication of that?”

  Toroca was puzzled by the questions. “Not that I can recall. I mean, that was so obvious to me, I don’t think it ever occurred to me to mention it.”

  Keenir thumped his tail in delight. “Excellent!” He cupped hands around his muzzle and shouted down the deck. “Ahoy, Biltog! Set course for Capital City—the most straight, most direct course you can manage!”

  Biltog bobbed concession. “Aye! Full speed ahead!”

  “No!” shouted Keenir. “I want sails two and four furled. Don’t let us get out of sight of the Others!”

  Toroca’s tail swished in bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t you see? Obviously, I’m not going to let that flotilla of ships engage us. No, they’re going to have to chase us all the way home. But Land has thousands of kilopaces of shoreline, most of it unsettled and unguarded. If we let the Others simply stumble on Land, they could storm any part of it. But they’ve no reason to think Land is very big, so they won’t deviate from whatever course we set. They’ll follow us straight back.”

  “And?”

  “We’ll send word ahead. Dybo will be ready for them. We will destroy every one of their ships.”

  “Destroy them? Why?”

  “It’s them or us, lad! Think about it—by our mere existence we pose a threat to them. They’ll want to sink the Dasheter before we can get back home; if no other Quintaglios know about them, they’re safe. Well, by God, there’s no way I’ll let them sink my ship! So their only other option is to try to wipe out all the Quintaglios; they’ve no idea how big Land is—they probably think that armada of ships will be enough to do it.”

  “They’ve got those tubes that shoot metal I told you about,” said Toroca. “And I’ve counted forty or so ships out there. They might indeed be able to wipe us out. Luring
them back to Land might spell the end of our race. Perhaps we should surrender.”

  “Surrender, lad? With those sticks that fire metal, they’d kill us all.”

  “Perhaps,” said Toroca softly, “that would be for the best.”

  Keenir looked at his young friend. “What in God’s name are you saying?”

  “‘In God’s name,’” repeated Toroca. “That’s exactly right.” He was quiet for a moment, then: “Consider our history, Keenir. Life is not native to this world. Rather, it was transplanted here. Why was that? Well, certainly one possible interpretation is that we were in danger of being killed off wherever it was that we came from.”

  Keenir couldn’t see where Toroca was going. “I suppose,” he said.

  “And then what happens when we arrive here? At least one of the arks crashed into this world; that’s the blue ship we found buried in Fra’toolar.”

  “Yes.”

  “And since that time, what has happened? Why, our world is in the process of destroying itself, tearing itself apart.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t see it, do you? What happens when overcrowding occurs amongst our own kind.”

  “Dagamant,” said Keenir. “The territorial frenzy.”

  “Exactly. We lose all reason, all restraint, and simply kill and kill and kill until either everyone is dead or the survivors are too exhausted to continue fighting.”

  “You paint it in an unfavorable light,” said Keenir meekly.

  “And what has happened now that we’ve met other intelligent beings? Why, even when there is no overcrowding, our basest feelings come to the fore and we kill again—kill thinking beings with no more regard than we have for killing dumb animals for food.”

  “Make your point.”

  “Don’t you see, Keenir? We’re poison. As a race, we’re vicious. We kill our own kind, we kill others. And what’s happening? Why, God keeps trying to snuff us out! On our original home, wherever that was, we were apparently threatened with extinction. The arks that carried us here, rather than being blessed by God, were buffeted in their voyage, with at least one of them falling out of the sky before its cargo of lifeforms could be let loose. God had almost destroyed us once, on our original home world, but a few of our ancestors escaped. God almost destroyed them en route, but enough of them survived to give rise to us. And now God shakes the entire world and is about to crumble it into dust, all to prevent the further spread of the poison that we represent.”