Robert Sawyer: Fossil Hunter

Toroca stared up at the firmament, at the wide awe and wonder of the night.

One of those points of light, perhaps, was that crucible. He wondered if they would ever discover which one.

The compartments in Capital City’s stadium had been designed to each hold a single spectator. But one compartment had had its dayslab removed so that it could accommodate both Afsan and his assistant, Pal-Cadool, sitting on small stools. Cadool’s territoriality was not aroused by Afsan; the blind Quintaglio had always been a special case to him.

“Describe everything for me, please,” said Afsan.

Cadool craned his neck to look up and out of the compartment’s opening. “There are a few clouds in the sky—the tubular, twisty kind that look like spilled entrails.” Cadool paused, clicked his teeth. “Say, that’s appropriate, isn’t it?” His words were drawn out, protracted along the same stretched lines as his whole wiry frame. “The sky itself is bright mauve today. The sun is still rising, of course. It’s passing behind a cloud just now. There are three, no, four moons visible in the sky, two showing crescent faces, the other two gibbous.”

Afsan nodded. “That would be Big One, Gray Orb, Dancer, and Slowpoke.”

“Yes.”

“What about the crowd?”

“Because of the way the compartments are laid out, no one else is directly visible from here. But I’m told every compartment is filled today.”

“Good. What’s about to happen must be widely seen if it is to have any meaning.”

“Don’t worry. I understand every newsrider from Capital province is in attendance, as well as many from the outlying areas.”

“How does the field look?” asked Afsan.

“The grass covering it is a mixture of brown and green, but it’s quite even—they’ve done a good job of fixing it up for this event. There aren’t any exposed patches of dirt anymore. You know the field is diamond shaped? Orange powder has been laid down, marking the east-west and north-south axes, so the diamond is split into four triangular quadrants.” Cadool was quiet for a moment, then: “Afsan, will Dybo win?”

“I’m not an astrologer anymore, Cadool. Never really was one. My master died before he taught me the interpretation of omens.”

“But you have a plan?”

“Even a plan requires much luck.”

A steady drumbeat began from down below. “Ah,” said Cadool, “here come the contestants.”

“Describe them, please.”

“They’re entering from almost directly beneath us—there’s a door into the arena at ground level there, right at the mid-point of the diamond. Dybo is leading the procession. He’s got on a very thick red belt, but no sash. I guess sashes would be too dangerous. Anyway, the belt makes it easy to tell it’s him. The other seven are following him, each about five paces behind. Each one’s wearing a similar belt, with the color of his or her home province.”

Cheers went up, spectators from each province rooting for their champion. The cheers for Dybo were the loudest.

“It’s been kilodays since I’ve had to worry about things such as memorizing provincial colors,” said Afsan above the hubbub. “I don’t remember the scheme.”

“Of course,” said Cadool. “Dybo is wearing imperial red. Kroy, from Arj’toolar, is wearing white. Spenress, from Chu’toolar, has donned light green. Wendest, from Fra’toolar, sports black—or maybe it’s dark blue, hard to tell. Dedprod, from Kev’toolar, is wearing light blue. Emteem—he’s from Jam’toolar—has a belt of gold. The belt of Nesster, from Mar’toolar, is pink. And Rodlox, from Edz’toolar, who started all this, wears brown.” Cadool had one of Novato’s best handheld far-seers with him. He brought it up to his left eye. “Dybo looks nervous, Afsan.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Afsan. “A great hunter once said to me, ‘Fear is the counselor.’ Cockiness will get him killed. He’s wise to be afraid.”

“The blackdeath will be hungry,” said Cadool. “They’ve starved it for twenty days. It may eat every one of them as it is.”

“Perhaps,” said Afsan softly.

A gong sounded below. Everyone turned their heads toward the entrance at the north end of the playing field, except for Afsan, who turned his head perpendicular to the noise, the better to hear it.

“They’re opening the beast gate now,” said Cadool. This door led directly to the stone-walled pen the great hunter had been kept in for several hundred days, awaiting the arrival of all the challengers.

Afsan nodded. “I can hear the ratcheting of the mechanism.”

“And here comes the blackdeath—”

A hush fell over the arena, except for some wingfingers who had been circling, wondering what was going on. They shrieked at the sight of the great carnivore coming slowly through the gateway.

Even though he was terrified of it, Cadool had to admit the blackdeath was beautiful. An amazing hunter, all curving teeth and claws, blacker than even those rare nights when only a couple of moons were visible.

Through the far-seer, the creature showed some signs of its ordeal. In many places, the skin on its muzzle was light gray instead of black; the great ball of resin hadn’t come off as cleanly as had been planned, and much flesh had been torn off as well. And the beast’s belly was caved in—it was clearly hungry.

Suddenly it began. The blackdeath surged ahead, its great strides propelling it forward across the grass. The eight contestants scattered at once.

The monster had already focused on a target: Dedprod from Kev’toolar, wearing the blue belt. Dedprod ran to the left, but the blackdeath’s stride was so many times greater than hers that she had no hope of outdistancing it.

The blackdeath’s back was straight, parallel to the ground as it ran, its tail flying out behind. Except for its puny forearms and dull-witted boxy head, it looked remarkably like a Quintaglio in this posture… a jet-black Quintaglio, a Quintaglio covered in soot.

Dedprod ran valiantly, with astonishing speed, but she was doomed from the moment the blackdeath cast its obsidian eyes on her. The beast quickly closed the distance between them. It tipped forward, its giant head coming down, its jaws gaping wide, wider still, the blue membranes at the corners of its gaping red maw stretched tight like drumheads. The blackdeath seized her, chomping down on her back. The crack of splintering spine was clearly audible in Afsan and Cadool’s compartment. Dedprod let out a scream that was cut short in mid-blast as her torso split open under the closing of the blackdeath’s jaws, the air that fueled the scream finding an easier escape through the great bloody rent in her hide.

There were seven others to deal with, of course, but the blackdeath was famished. The crowd watched from the safe elevation of the stands as the great carnivore dropped Dedprod’s body to the ground. It fixed her torso in place with a massive three-toed foot, then bent low, tearing off one of Dedprod’s legs with a yanking motion of its jaws.

Quintaglios were too small and bony to make a good meal for a blackdeath, but this one was famished. Dedprod’s leg fit most of the way into its maw, the giant teeth tearing the muscle from it. The blackdeath used its tiny hands to maneuver the severed limb around, the way an eggling might play with a teething rod, then at last it dropped the remains—bones slick with blood, tendons and remnants of flesh dangling from them. They fell to the ground, still articulated.

The beast continued to work over the carcass, tearing entrails from Dedprod’s body cavity.

On the field, Emteem, the male from Jam’toolar, was panicking. His screams were plaintive as he begged to be released from the arena. He clawed and clawed at the arena’s stone walls, trying to get purchase, trying to climb out, but the crowd jeered him, shouted that he was a coward, a disgrace. Cadool described the scene to Afsan. “My heart goes out to him,” Afsan said softly.