Robert Sawyer - Fossil Hunter

Toroca’s eye was caught by movement amongst the rocks on the opposite side of the depression. It was Drawtood, another brother, approaching from the east. Dynax, standing over the body, looked up. Drawtood bowed concession first in Dynax’s direction, then at Toroca, acknowledging that the other two had arrived first. Dynax, to this point unaware of Toroca’s presence, turned around and, appearing slightly startled, bowed at him in turn.

It was strange, thought Toroca, that the three of us should happen to come here at the same time.

And, yet, is it strange? We’re related.

He wondered what his siblings were thinking. They’d all known Yabool, of course, and would have come to pay final tribute, even if he had not shared their parents.

But was the fact that he was their blood relation significant? It seemed so, somehow, to Toroca. But territoriality kept Quintaglios apart. Dynax would stand silently over the body, then Toroca would, and, at last, Drawtood would.

Each alone with their thoughts.

The ground shook slightly. Like all Quintaglios, Toroca reacted with fear, for trembling ground could mean a landquake. He swung his head around, and soon his fear gave way to a son clicking of teeth. Jogging along, tail flying, gut barely clearing the black soil, was His Luminance himself, the Emperor, Dy-Dybo. Toroca stepped out of the Emperor’s path and watched him huffing and puffing, make his way around the courtyard.

The arena in which the battle with the blackdeath would occur was modern in construction, of course: few buildings survived more than a generation or two, because of the landquakes. Bui it was built to the ancient specifications, using the traditional stone-cutting techniques outlined in the scrolls of Jostark.

The playing field was diamond-shaped, like a ship’s hull, with the long axis half again the length of the short. The long axis was north-south. Along the two eastern sides of the diamond were layer upon layer of seating compartments. The two banks of compartments joined in an obtuse angle at the center of the playing field. Each compartment was big enough to hold the largest adult. The backs of the compartments were open. Not only did this afford access, but, because they opened into steady wind from the east, they ensured that the pheromones of all the occupants were blown out over the field, instead of back onto the spectators.

Each compartment contained an angled dayslab, set far enough back that the walls between compartments prevented the user from seeing adjacent cells or even the other bank of compartments. From within such a cell, one could comfortably watch a sporting event that lasted many daytenths while maintaining the illusion of splendid, peaceful isolation.

All of this had to be explained to Afsan, who, having come from a small Pack, had never been in an arena before. He ran his hands over an architect’s wooden model. And then, once he had a mental picture, he, Pal-Cadool, and Gork walked the length and breadth of the field, and circumnavigated its perimeter over and over again, so that Afsan could better understand the layout, better formulate a strategy for Emperor Dybo.

Governor Rodlox and his aide, Pod-Oro, entered Capital City’s town square, where merchants traded their goods. “It sure is crowded here,” observed Rodlox. Oro grunted in reply.

Toroca’s briefing with the Emperor took place in Dybo’s office in the new palace building, a simple, functional room, devoid of opulence or ostentation. Dybo’s desk, cluttered with papers, writing leathers, and scrolls, was situated near one corner. Novato and Afsan attended the meeting, too. They were aware of their kinship with Toroca, of course, but if it carried any special meaning for of them, there were no outward signs.

“I cast a shadow in your presence,” Toroca said to the Emperor.

Dybo acknowledged the greeting with a bow. Novato and Afsan were likewise met with the same traditional words, but they, of lesser station than the Emperor, reciprocated, repeating back same greeting back at Toroca. The four of them slowly drifted to the four corners of the room, maximizing the space between them. Dybo settled onto the dayslab overhanging his cluttered desk. Afsan leaned back on his tail, arms folded across his chest.

Novato straddled a small stool.

“What new finds do you have to report?” asked Wab-Novato.

“Well,” said Toroca slowly, “the most interesting was an artifact, a device made of some incredibly strong material, material that was harder than diamond.”

Afsan lifted his muzzle. “There is nothing harder than diamon.”

Toroca nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. But this—thing—was indeed made out of some blue material that was harder than the diamond in my testing kit. And it had been buried in rock for ages, but showed no signs of crushing or damage. The material was virtually indestructible.”

Novato was leaning forward. “Fascinating!” She turned to Dybo. “You see, Your Luminance? This is exactly the sort of thing I was hoping the Geological Survey would turn up: new resources to make our exodus more feasible.” She swung her muzzle toward her son. “Toroca, where is this specimen?”

He looked at the floor. “It’s lost, I’m afraid. It fell overboard on the Dasheter .”

“Toroca!” There was shock in Novato’s tone. “Your muzzle shows some blue.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, it was thrown overboard.”

“By whom?”

“My assistant, Babnol.” He paused, then, as if the coincidence of praenomens might forestall his mother’s wrath, said, “ Wab -Babnol.”

“She’s clearly unstable,” said Novato. “I’ll have her replaced.”

“No,” said Toroca too loudly, and then once more, “No. She and I have discussed the incident. There won’t be a repetition; that I guarantee.”

Novato looked dubious, but nodded. “As you wish.” Seeing that she’d clearly swished her tail into something unpleasant, she sought to move the conversation along. “What else did you discover of value?”

“Well, the south polar cap is, as myth had it, nothing but ice and snow. We now have a map of its coastline, but even that’s of limited use, since it seems that it will change over time as ice cracks and melts. So, no, there’s nothing there, unfortunately, that will be directly useful in getting us off this world. Nothing, that is, except the lifeforms that inhabit it.”

Toroca waited for that to sink in.

“Lifeforms?” said Novato and Afsan simultaneously, and, a moment later, “Lifeforms?” said Dybo.

“Yes.”

“What kind of lifeforms?” asked Novato.

“Wingfingers,” said Toroca. “Except that these wingfingers don’t fly.”

Dybo, no savant himself, took a certain pleasure in catching his intellectuals in errors. “Then they can’t be wingfingers,” he said. “By definition, wingfingers fly.”

“Umm, forgive me, Your Luminance,” said Toroca, “but that’s not the definition set out by the Arbiter of the Sequence. A wingfinger is a type of animal, basically reptilian, as we are, but also as we are, warm-blooded, and, unlike us, with bodies covered with hair. But the diagnostic characteristic—the one thing that determines whether an animal is or is not a wingfinger—is the structure of the hand. If the four bones of the last finger are enormously elongated, as if to support a membrane, then the creature is a wingfinger.”

“All right,” said Dybo, sounding a little disappointed at Toroca’s recovery, “so they are wingfingers. But if they can’t fly, how did get to the south pole?”

“That’s a very perceptive question, Your Luminance. How indeed? My guess is that they used to be able to fly.”