Robert Sawyer - Foreigner

She and her creche-mate, Daldar, running through the forest together…

A culling—surely not her own! One she must have seen at some other point. A group of eight hatchlings half-running, half-stumbling across the birthing sands, while a giant male Quintaglio—a bloodpriest—gave chase, his purple robes billowing about him. One after another, hatchlings were caught in his gaping maw and then slid down his distended throat…

A happier sight: her first meeting with gruff old Var-Keenir, when the master mariner had sought her out to acquire one of ner far-seers. She’d beamed with pride at that, and all of Pack Gelbo had treated her with new respect…

The sight of Kevpel through the big far-seer she’d set up at the summit of the dormant Osbkay volcano. Kevpel’s glorious rings, its retinue of moons, its beautiful banded cloud tops…

That first glorious time she’d beat her teaching master at a game of lastoontal …

Being there, aboard the Dasheter , to see her first clutch of eggs hatch, the eight babies using their little birthing horns to break through their shells, then tumbling out onto the wooden deck of tbe ship…

Soaring through the air during that incredible first flight aboard the Tak-Saleed …

And that time, long ago, with Afsan. Dear, wonderful Afsan. He’d seemed so awkward and gawky—just a skinny adolescent, really—when he’d shown up at her workplace in the old temple of Hoog. But what a mind he had! And what wonderful and startling truths they’d found by pooling their observations. And that night, when she suddenly found herself receptive, suddenly found herself with him inside her. That wonderful night—

Mokleb had co-opted Pettit, Afsan’s apprentice, to do some research for her. Pettit knew what time Afsan’s usual appointment with Mokleb was, and so she waited for Mokleb along the path that led to Rockscape. The young apprentice stood in plain sight, in the middle of the path, so that Mokleb would be sure to see her well in advance. After ritual greetings were exchanged, Pettit spoke: “I have that information you requested.”

“Ah, good,” said Mokleb. “Tell me.”

“Empress Sar-Sardon arrived in Pack Carno on the nineteenth day of Dargo in kiloday 7096.”

Mokleb’s inner eyelids fluttered. “The nineteenth? Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes,” said Pettit. “There’s a commemorative stone in Carno’s territory. There’s a fine etching of it in the archives here; the date was easy to read.”

“There’s no chance that the Empress’s arrival was delayed, so that the date was wrong?”

“None. They tell me the date was carved in the presence of the Empress, and that the Empress then added her own cartouche, chiseled with the aid of a stencil. I checked with Porgon, who’s in charge of palace protocol. Of course, it was his master’s master who handled such things back then, but he said that’s the way it’s always done: the date not carved until the Empress was actually there.”

“And how long did Empress Sardon stay with Pack Carno?”

“Less than a day. Indeed, I spoke to one oldster who used to be with Carno but now lives here who remembers Sardon’s visit well. She said the Empress was there for only the better part of an afternoon.”

“Incredible,” said Mokleb, shaking her head. “Did you also check the creche records, as I asked?”

“Yes. The originals are still with Carno, but copies are kept here in the Capital. I found the duplicate record of Afsan’s hatching. The date is exactly as Afsan had said.”

Mokleb stood their, shaking her head. “And the sequence of hatchings?” she said.

“Six clutches were laid that season in Carno; Afsan’s was the second last to hatch.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s what the documents say. Allow me to approach closer; I’ve copied out the birth records for you.”

“ Hahat dan .”

Pettit moved close, handed over a limp piece of writing leather, then backed off.

Mokleb was silent for a long time, staring at the sheet. After a while, Pettit said, “Um, will that be all?”

“Hmm? My apologies. Yes. Yes, it will. Thank you very much.”

Pettit bowed. “I hope the information is of some use.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mokleb. “Yes, indeed.”

Suddenly, Novato was awake.

Breathing.

Alive.

She opened her eyes.

The strip of black along the edge of the door was gone. The outer door of the double-doored room had closed; either she had pulled the handle or perhaps it had slid shut of its own volition.

She was floating again.

And there was air all around her.

Air and, drifting about, rounded globs of blood.

Novato ached all over, especially her eyes, which felt as if they’d been under great strain.

She touched her left earhole. It was caked with dried blood. Her right earhole was the same. She brought her palms together in a loud clap. She could still hear, thank God.

God.

She’d been dying. Dying . And she’d come back.

It had been so peaceful, so inviting.

And all those memories, those wonderful memories. Every moment of her life.

But it wasn’t her time. Not yet. There was still work to be oone.

She had to go back. Kicking gently off the outer door, she propelled herself back into the corridor. Further kicks pushed her through the cubic room with the wall of nine windows and out into the staging area. She found her lifeboat, got in, and touched the panel that made the door disappear. The lifeboat began its long trek down to the ground. Although her entire body ached, Novato floated serenely in midair, absolutely at peace with herself.

Afsan spent most of his days now in consultation with Dybo and members of the imperial staff, preparing for the arrival of the Others. They had developed a plan for defending Capital Harbor, and the engineers and chemists were now hard at work devising the equipment needed. Still, Mokleb had impressed upon Afsan that the talking cure could not be interrupted, so every second day, for one daytenth, Afsan left the palace office building and came out to Rockscape.

“Remember one of our early sessions in which you discussed your childhood with Pack Carno?” asked Mokleb.

“No,” said Afsan. Then, “Wait—yes. Yes, I remember that. Goodness, that was ages ago.”

“Very early in the therapy, yes. Remember you said you had wished there had been other people like you, others who would have accepted you.”

“I suppose I said that.”

“You did. I keep verbatim notes.” A rustling of paper. “Afsan: ‘It didn’t seem fair, that’s all. It seemed that somewhere there should have been people more like me, people who shared my interests, people to whom my mathematical skill was nothing special.’ ”

“Mokleb: ‘But there was no one like that in Carno.’

“Afsan: ‘No. Except perhaps…’

“Mokleb: ‘Yes?’

“Afsan: ‘Nothing.’

“Mokleb: ‘You must share your thoughts.’

“Afsan: ‘It’s gone now. I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.’ ”

Afsan shifted uncomfortably on his rock. “Yes, I recall that exchange.”

“Well, I know whom you were thinking of, Afsan. I know precisely whom you were thinking of.”

“Oh?”

“In a much later session, you mentioned the visit of Empress Sar-Sardon to your home Pack of Carno.”

“That’s right. I didn’t know it was Sardon at the time—guess I was too young to understand such things—but later I learned that it had been her. But, Mokleb, I can assure you that Sardon wasn’t whom I was thinking of.”

“No, of course not. Now, this is crucial: are you sure it was Sardon?”