Robert Sawyer: Foreigner

Afsan ran toward the voice, ran the way he had ages ago when he could see. The sound of his feet slapping the ground echoed behind him, drowning out the very words he was desperate to hear. He stopped, but his heart was pounding deafeningly now. Cupping a hand behind each earhole, he tried to isolate the mournful voice. Earlier it had been to the left. Now, maddeningly, it seemed to be behind him. He ran again, back the way he’d come.

More snatches of speech: “I.” “You.” “We.” The rest was a smudge of sound, unintelligible, lost on the wind.

Afsan stopped running again, cocked his head, strained to listen. It seemed now that the dim voice was up ahead. He hurried in that direction but already it was clear that the source was moving yet again. “Wait!” cried Afsan as the source of the sound shifted again. “Wait for me!”

He ran until he could run no more. The voice was still too far away for him to catch anything more than the odd isolated word. “I—”

From behind him now. Afsan pivoted and ran to the rear.

“You—

The left! He hurried in that direction.

“We—”

The right.

Again and again, forever.

The creature staring out at Toroca and Captain Keenir looked something like a Quintaglio. All the same parts were there: two arms ending in five-fingered hands; two legs ending in feet with three toeclaws and a heel spur; a tail, triangular in cross section, hanging off the back; a thick, dexterous neck with, in males, as this one apparently was, the folds of an uninflated dewlap suspended from the front; a head looking round in full view but front-heavy with a drawn-out muzzle in profile; two nostrils at the tip of the muzzle; small earholes; forward-facing eyes.

And yet, at the same time, the—the other didn’t look like a Quintaglio at all. The leathery hides of Quintaglios are predominantly green, shaded with yellow and brown, and, in the very old, mottled with black. But this being was almost completely yellow, with gray highlights. And its eyes, rather than being the black of Quintaglio orbs, were pale yellow with gold irises and clearly visible pupils. The earholes, instead of being the kidney-shaped openings most Quintaglios had, were vertical slits. And the shape of the muzzle, well… it was pinched, caved in on either side, coming to a narrower and sharper point than normal for a Quintaglio. The head also seemed big for the body, and the body was thin and puny by Quintaglio standards. The net effect of all these differences in color and shape and proportion was to make the other look wrong, malformed.

Quintaglios usually sported a decorative sash, and possibly a hat or tool belt. This creature was completely naked save for a copper necklace, two bracelets on one arm and three on the other, and a small band around his right ankle.

The Other just stood there, head tilted slightly, hands hanging free, claws retracted. But Keenir, Captain Var-Keenir of the good ship Dasheter , continued to bob in territorial display.

Toroca thought the sailor’s reaction a bizarre one and wondered fleetingly if the captain was only feigning the display as a form of greeting, but, no, the extended claws and the jaws hanging loosely open showing curving, serrated teeth made clear that this was a true instinctive display.

The Other was thirty paces away, too distant to constitute an encroachment on Keenir’s territory, and he was giving no sign of replying to Keenir’s bobbing. Surely the combination of a lack of response and the distance between them would snap Keenir out of it—

Not a chance. Keenir burst into action, his body tipped over so that his torso was held horizontally, parallel to the sands of the beach, his tail flying out behind him.

The Other took a few beats to react… a few fatal beats. By the time he had turned around, ready to retreat into the vegetation, Keenir was almost upon him. The captain crouched low, then leapt, hurtling through the air. He landed on the Other’s narrow yellow back, slamming him into the sands.

The captain was more than twice the Other’s size. Keenir arched his own neck, preparing for a killing bite, but the Other managed to roll the two of them onto their sides then jab his elbow into the underside of Keenir’s muzzle. Quintaglio lower jawbones aren’t fused at the front; they can split to facilitate the bolting of meat. By bringing his elbow in underneath Keenir’s jaw, the Other forced the two halves to separate—excruciating when not done under voluntary control. Keenir yelped and scrambled for his feet. The Other clawed sand, also trying to regain his footing.

Toroca had stood frozen, startled by the sight of the Other, and confounded by Keenir’s bizarre reaction, but now he, too, sprang into action, running toward the combatants. The Other seemed not to be in the territorial frenzy of dagamant which now gripped Keenir; his elbow-to-the-chin trick had been a calculated, intelligent move. Toroca hoped that if the Other could get away, he’d do just that instead of turning to attack. Toroca ran toward them, divots of moist sand flying out behind his footfalls. He’d broken up a territorial fight once before but this would be a lot harder. Keenir was huge and powerful. A shearing bite from his massive jaws could decapitate Toroca; a blow from his arms could crush Toroca’s throat.

Toroca was about to leap onto Keenir’s back when another strategy occurred to him. Bending low, he scooped up a handful of sand. Here, back from the breaking waves, it was mostly dry. He tossed it in Keenir’s face. Instinctively, Keenir brought his hands up to try to get the grit out of his eyes, and, in that moment, the Other made it to his feet and began to run toward the wall of vegetation. But Keenir was only momentarily distracted. Although he kept one black eye closed, grit presumably still stinging him, he rose up, a mountain of green flesh, and gave chase.

There was no contest at all. Keenir’s stride was half again as long as the Other’s. He was upon the hapless yellow being in a few moments, the captain’s jaw swinging wide, the lower jawbones splitting apart (this time under Keenir’s direction), his curving white fangs, slick with spit, glinting in the harsh sunlight. And then, with a dart of the neck, Keenir scooped a vast track of flesh from the Other’s shoulder and back. Death was instantaneous; the Other crumpled, blood surging onto the sands. Keenir tipped his head up and let out a long, primal roar.

Toroca surveyed the scene. The beach was covered with footprints, dents left by bodies slamming into the sand, and splatters of blood. And here, at the end of the trail, Captain Keenir crouched on top of a strange yellow corpse, his muzzle shiny and red, stringy meat caught between his teeth.

The first encounter between Quintaglios and Others had not gone well.

Emperor Dy-Dybo was constantly busy. His principal concern was the exodus project, but he knew it would be many kilodays before the world came to an end—indeed, the world would doubtless outlive him. That meant he could not ignore more prosaic matters. During a typical day, Dybo dealt with many issues related to the economy, including, for example, improving bilateral trade with Edz’toolar province, whose storm-swept coast made it difficult for ships to land.

He was also trying to resolve the dispute between the peoples of Chu’toolar and Mar’toolar. The citizens of the latter claimed that the Hahat Golarda—the ancient scroll that apportioned territories—had been misinterpreted, and that their border should run along the northern, rather than southern, edge of the Hoont’mar mountain chain. Dybo’s scholars had determined that the Mar’toolarians were correct, but it remained for him to get Len-Honlab, the ancient and stubborn governor of Chu’toolar, to concede the point.