Robert Sawyer - Foreigner

“ What? Keenir, you can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. Look, you’ve had to keep him in your lab as is. No one else has even seen him. But you can’t keep him there indefinitely. And soon enough one of my crew is going to by eyes on him. Whether the sight of an infant Other will be enough to trigger dagamant I don’t know, but we can’t risk it in the close confines of a sailing ship. I won’t have the Dasheter become another Galadoreter .”

“But Taksan—Taksan is my…”

“Your what?” said Keenir.

“Nothing. You can’t make me get rid of him.”

“You may direct the Geological Survey, Toroca, but I am captain of the Dasheter , I can allow nothing to put my ship or crew at risk.” Keenir turned his back and looked out over the waves.

Toroca’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I will not harm Taksan. If you try to do so, or allow anyone else to, I will kill you.”

Keenir clicked his teeth. “Oh, come on, Toroca. Be serious.”

Toroca raised his hands to show that his claws were unsheathed. “I am being serious, Keenir. I shall kill anyone who harms Taksan.”

Var-Osfik was the Arbiter of the Sequence, the person responsible for keeping Quintaglio knowledge in order. Osfik was a fussy old thing, but lately she’d had to make a lot of changes. Astrology, for instance, had originally come right after prophecy in the Sequence, since both dealt with the revelation of hidden truths. But after Afsan’s discovery about the Face of God, Osfik moved astrology to in between physics, which dealt with the way things work, and geology, the study of the world, thus making astrology the study of the way the worlds work. That had been a major move, and librarians across Land probably cursed her for it. Mokleb thought about this as she scratched the signaling plate—gold, befitting Osfik’s station—next to the arbiter’s door.

“Who is it?” came a gruff voice, muffled by the wood.

“Nav-Mokleb, undertaking business requested by the Emperor.”

“ Hahat dan .”

Fortunately, Osfik was female; Mokleb’s pheromones would have less effect on her. Mokleb was amazed by how crowded the room was. Objects of all types covered the floor, tabletops, and shelves. On one wall were cases containing insects on pins, arranged from right to left in ascending order of beauty. On Osfik’s desk, an assortment of smith’s tools. Mokleb couldn’t discern any order to their sequence, unless—perhaps in ascending order of strength needed to wield them. On the floor, planks of wood from various trees, with a few set aside, apparently not yet fitted into the progression. The Sequence for wood was old and well established. That Osfik was mulling it over was a sign of the times: all knowledge was subject to reinterpretation these days.

“I’m a busy person,” said Osfik without preamble. “I’m sure you can appreciate that. Do me the courtesy, therefore, of dispensing with protocols. I accept that we have bowed at each other, that we’ve acknowledged how we cast shadows in each other’s presence, that you wouldn’t have bothered me if it wasn’t important, and so on. Now, quickly and precisely, Nav-Mokleb, what do you want?”

Mokleb felt off balance, as though someone had lifted her tail and she was tipping forward. Niceties were always observed; every encounter was an intricate social dance. She was not quite prepared for this, and, on the whole, she thought she didn’t like it. Nevertheless: “I’ve but one question, Osfik: is there such a thing as a purple wingfinger?”

Osfik looked up, nictitating membranes fluttering. “This is the Emperor’s business, you said?”

“Indirectly. His Luminance has asked me to treat a member of his staff. I’m a healer of sorts.”

“Oh. I know who you are, Mokleb. You’ve taken more than daytenths of my time, what with these books and tracts you’ve published. The study of the mind always fit neatly under philosophy before, but I could not see putting your works on the same shelf as those of Dolgar or Spooltar—no offense; quality is not the issue. Content is. You treat the study of the mind in a more medical matter.”

Mokleb was surprised that her work had attracted Osfik’s attention. “I don’t wish to add to the burden I’ve already created for you. I simply need to know whether there is any species of wingfinger with purple wings.”

“You’re in luck,” said Osfik. “I’ve got most of the books on wingfingers right here. Since Toroca discovered those unknown wingringer forms on the southern ice cap, I’ve been trying to fit them into the Sequence.” She snorted briefly. “He’s another who has made my life difficult. His evolutionary model has required a complete reordering of the sequence of life.”

Osfik rummaged around until she found a large, square book bound in leather. “Here it is. The Wingfingers of Land, a collection of paintings by Pal-Noltark.” She handed the heavy volume to Mokleb. “Have a look. It’s not a great book; Noltark ordered it by geographic region when properly wingfingers are arranged by increasing maximal adult wingspan. Still, he boasts to have painted every species. If a purple one exists, it’ll be in there.”

Mokleb began turning the stiff paper pages. There were more varieties of wingfinger than she’d ever imagined: some had pointy crests off the backs of their skulls, others did not, but all had wings supported on incredibly elongated fourth fingers, and all had fine hair covering most of their bodies. There were scarlet wingfingers, green wingfingers, copper wingfingers, white ones, black ones, ones with striped bodies and ones freckled with colored dots, but nowhere was there one that was purple. She closed the cover.

“Find what you were looking for?” asked Osfik.

“No—I mean, yes. I found that there is no such thing as a purple wingfinger.”

Osfik nodded. “I never saw a purple wingfinger,” she said, “and I never hope to see one, but I can tell you anyhow I’d rather see than be one.” Then the old arbiter clicked her teeth. “Say, that’s good. I should write that down.”

Mokleb thanked Osfik and left. The purple wingfinger was symbolic, obviously, of something that was troubling Afsan. But what? The sky was purple, of course, and some kinds of flowers were purple, too. Some shovelmouths and thunderbeasts had purple markings on their hides. The blue-black pigment used in hunting tattoos could look purple in certain light.

And what about wingfingers? Flying reptiles, they came in all sizes. They laid eggs. Some ate insects, some ate lizards, many kinds ate fish, and many more fed on carrion.

Purple.

Wingfinger.

Mokleb shook her head.

Novato had dreamed of flying before. Indeed, after a ride in one of her gliders, she often found herself feeling as though she were still soaring. But that sensation of flight had always been accompanied by a feeling of forward motion, of slicing through the air. Now, well, it was simply as if she were hovering, floating, a cloud.

And then she awoke, with a start, as her head banged against the lifeboat’s ceiling.

Banged against the ceiling…

Novato’s heart skipped a beat, and she scrunched her eyes tightly closed. She felt her whole body go rigid as she prepared to crash back to the floor. But that did not happen. Instead, her back touched the ceiling again, gently this time, like a piece of wood bobbing in a calm lake. She opened her eyes. At first she’d thought perhaps she’d been slammed against the roof by rapid deceleration, but in the light of the countless stars and eight visible moons she had no trouble making out the rungs of the tower’s ladder-like sides as they passed. They were going by at steady rate.