Robert Sawyer - Fossil Hunter

“No, but yours is subdued compared to most people’s.”

Dybo grunted. “Perhaps. But you think Toroca, because of his lack of territoriality, should be the new imperial bloodpriest?”

“Exactly,” said Afsan. “It’s a sad fact that almost all of those seventeen hundred children will have to be killed. Someday, perhaps, when we do finally get off this world, there will be room for all our children to live, but until then we must have population controls. Most of the hatchlings in question are old enough now to reveal more than just how fast they are. Let Toroca devise a way to select among them. He knows what to look for, I’m sure. I guarantee he won’t simply choose the fastest or strongest.”

Dybo sounded worried. “But that will change—”

“Change the entire character of a generation of Quintaglios,” said Afsan. “Maybe not by much, but it will be a step in the right direction.”

“A whole generation chosen for something other than aggressiveness,” said Dybo. “It’s a daring thought.”

“But a productive one. We all need to be able to work together, Dybo. You know that. The old saying is true: time crawls for a child, walks for an adolescent, and runs for an adult. Well, our civilization is now past its childhood, and time is indeed running now—running out, for this entire world.”

“I had exactly the same thought myself many days ago,” said Dybo. “I agree, a reduction in territoriality would be a useful thing.”

Afsan’s tail swished. “And remember the giant blue structure Toroca has found in Fra’toolar. When we do at last leave this world, we may be entering someone else’s territory. I have a feeling that, whatever’s out there, we might do well not to challenge it.”

Dybo nodded. “Very well. I shall appoint Toroca. He won’t want the job, I’m sure…”

“The fact that he won’t want it is perhaps his best qualification for it,” said Afsan. “Once the current overpopulation problem is solved, he can step down.”

Dybo bowed at his friend. “You are wise, Afsan. We need more people like you.”

Afsan dipped his muzzle, seemingly accepting the compliment. He said nothing, keeping his promise to Maliden, but held on to a single thought. No, Dybo, we need more people like you.

Just north of Capital City, not far from Rockscape, there were some wide plains ending in a cliff face overlooking the vast body of water that, for want of a better name, people still called the Great River. The plains were covered with grass, kept short by shovelmouths and other plant-eaters. The east-west wind blew across its level surface.

A small crowd—the only kind possible—had gathered here, gathered around what some were calling Novato’s folly.

It was a bizarre contraption, made of thin wooden struts and sheets of leather and pieces of light metal. It seemed fragile, almost as if the wind would blow it away.

“My friends,” said Novato, standing on an upended crate so that everyone could see her, “I present the Tak-Saleed .”

There were murmurs of recognition from some in the crowd, but many were too young to remember the person after whom the strange machine was named.

The Tak-Saleed had a wide triangular canopy and a small hollow undercarriage. Its front end was articulated, with a double-headed prow that pointed both forward and back. It resembled more than anything a crude child’s model of a wingfinger made from odds and ends, and yet, that wasn’t quite right either, for it had a tail that fanned out behind it and its wings were reinforced with struts.

In these particulars, it looked not like a wingfinger, but like the strange gift from the giant blue egg found in Fra’toolar—like a bird.

Novato moved behind the undercarriage and crawled in on her belly, lying flat within. Her tail, thick and flattened from side to side, rose up through a slit that ran down the rear of the hull. Once she was in position, two assistants stepped close, strapping the protruding part of her tail into a harness that swiveled the articulated prow.

At last, the ropes holding the Tak-Saleed in place were cut. The steady wind blew under its great triangular wing and… and… and…

—lifted it into the air.

The crowd gasped. The Tak-Saleed skimmed across the plain, barely clearing the grass at times, occasionally lifting to the height of a middle-ager’s shoulder.

All too soon, it skidded to a stop, having traveled perhaps twenty paces.

Tails thumped the ground in glee. Novato let out a whoop of joy—

—and then a gust of wind blew across the plain and suddenly she was airborne again. Unprepared, she yanked her tail, the pointed head of the craft turned, and the Tak-Saleed banked to the right, into the wind, toward the cliff face.

Members of Novato’s team ran toward the runaway craft, hoping to grab hold of it, but just as they got close, the glider lifted higher, higher still, sailing over their heads, sailing over the precipice—The entire crowd ran to the edge of the cliff, mouths agape. The Tak-Saleed was spiraling down, lower and lower. If it hit the cliff face, Novato would be killed. She was frantically moving her tail, trying to steer.

The craft rose slightly again, but only for a moment, and then the wide curving path continued its downward course. Below was rocky shore.

There was nothing to be done. It would take a daytenth to get down to the water. There were no easy paths from here.

They watched, horrified, as the fragile-looking craft continued to spiral in. A real wingfinger flew into view, apparently wondering what this thing was. The hairy flyer looked so much more elegant, more in control—

The Tak-Saleed touched the waves—just touched them—and seemed to break apart.

Novato was strapped in, her tail hooked up to the steering contraption. If she couldn’t free herself, and quickly, she would drown.

Waves crashed against rocks.

The Tak-Saleed looked like a dead thing, broken on the water.

Wingfingers squawked.

And then—

Something moving through the waves—

Something green.

Novato! Her thick tail was swinging side-to-side, propelling her toward the shore. Closer, closer still. At last she stood, waves rolling against her legs. She gestured, a great, expansive arcing of her arm, at the crowd above.

And every single one of them cheered.

The first small step had been taken.

The first Quintaglio had flown.

A young Quintaglio used to go through two rites of passage at childhood’s end. One was the first hunt—the first truly cooperative effort—coming together and feeling the camaraderie of the pack. The other was a pilgrimage by sailing ship to the far side of the world to gaze upon the spectacle of the Face of God, covering one-quarter of the sky.

That particular journey had lost its religious significance, thanks to Afsan, but still was something that everyone did at least once in his or her lifetime. Toroca was sure that a third rite of passage—a third thing everyone did at least once—would be added to that list. Everyone would journey to the cliffs along the coast of Fra’toolar to see the great blue structure, projecting out like a giant, half-buried egg. Toroca’s surveyors, and teams of bridge and road builders, had removed much more rock than the original blackpowder blasts had, but the great hull, made of that strange indestructible material, was still mostly encased in layer after layer of stone.

Once conditions settled down in the Capital, Dybo insisted on going to see the structure himself. He summoned the Dasheter . and he, along with Novato and Afsan and gruff old Captain Keenir, made their way to the site of the discovery, joining Toroca and Babnol there. They all stood on the beach, chill winds whipping over them, and stared up at the structure: curving blue surface against beige rock, the sky purple overhead, the sun, near the zenith, brilliantly white.