Foreigner (2 page)

“Will you look at that?” said Toroca softly, passing the far-seer to the captain.

“An unknown country,” said Keenir, head shaking in disbelief. Then, rotating on his heel, he shouted, “Starboard ho! Turn the ship!”

An ark.

A space ark.

Wab-Novato leaned back on her muscular tail, placed her hands firmly on her slender hips, and looked up at the vast blue structure protruding from the cliff face.

She’d spent most of the last two kilodays here in Fra’toolar province, studying this alien spaceship, trying to fathom its mysteries. But figuring out this ship was like tracking a wingfinger: you could follow the footprints in the sand, fooling yourself that you were getting closer to a tasty meal, but just when you thought you had your quarry within reach, it would take to the air, leaving you far behind. There were almost no gears or levers or springs used in this ship’s construction, no pumps or wheels, nothing that Quintaglios were familiar with.

It had seemed like a Godsend, this ship of space. The Quintaglio world, innermost of fourteen moons, was doomed: within a few hundred kilodays it would be torn apart by the stress of its orbit around the giant, banded planet called the Face of God. Twenty kilodays ago, when Afsan had figured out that their moon was doomed, no Quintaglio had ever flown and the idea of traversing the void between worlds was the stuff of the wildest fantasy stories. But now the government was devoted to the exodus, the project Novato herself was in charge of.

Before this ship had been found, the Quintaglios had been making good progress on their own: after studying wingfingers and the long-extinct creatures known as birds, Novato had built the first glider, the
Tak-Saleed
. In the two kilodays since, more efficient gliders had been developed. Perhaps she’d been a fool to turn over that line of research to someone else, although back then this ark had seemed to be a shortcut to the stars. But despite the best efforts of her team, no one yet had a clue as to how the ship operated.

The cliff it was embedded in was more than a hundred paces tall, showing the best uninterrupted sequences of sedimentary rock on all of Land. Toroca had uncovered the ship while studying these layers, looking for fossils. He found lots of them above a certain point — the lowest chalk stratum, known as the Bookmark layer — but none below. It had been as if the Bookmark indicated the point of the divine creation of life. But most scholars now agreed that it was instead the arrival point, marking where transplanted lifeforms had first been released by other arks onto this world.

But this ark had crashed, its five-eyed crewmembers killed, its cargo of plants and animals never released. The ark had been buried in sediment that later turned to rock, but it had not been crushed: the blue material of the ship’s hull was harder than diamond and impervious to corrosion. The part now projecting out of the cliff had been exposed by blasting, and, big though it seemed, it was only a tiny fraction of the total ship.

It was noon. The purple sky was shot through with silvery-white clouds. To Novato’s left were choppy waves — the world-spanning body of water. In front of her, running along the edge of the cliff, was a narrow strip of beach, crabs scuttling amongst the rocks. Leading up the cliff face to the blue ark were webs of climbing ropes left over from the early excavations as well as scaffolding made of
adabaja
wood, added later to make getting up to the ark easier. Oil lamp in hand, Novato began climbing the rickety stairs of the scaffolding.

As she ascended, she could see, far overhead, the green forms of several Quintaglios working with picks at the sides of the giant ark. Others, Novato knew, were likewise hacking away at the rock on top of the ship. To date, only one entrance to the ship had been found, and passage through it was hampered because its outer door was jammed partway shut. Miners had been working steadily at uncovering more of the ship in hopes of finding another way in. So far they had failed, but as they exposed more of the ship’s roof, they had found that much of it was covered with black hexagonal cells. No one knew what the black honeycomb was for, but Novato had noticed one startling thing: rather than heating up in the sunlight, as dark objects normally did, these cells remained cool, as if — Novato couldn’t fathom the mechanism involved — as if the heat falling on them were somehow conducted into the ship.

At last, Novato reached the top of the stairs. She crossed the wooden platform leading to the ship’s half-closed door. That door led into a tiny chamber, the far wall of which contained another door. The chamber itself was completely empty, except for some grillwork on the walls.

This double-doored room was the subject of much debate.

Some thought it was an animal trap. Bait might have been used to lure prey into the outer chamber, then the outside door would have been closed quickly and the inner door not opened until the animal within had asphyxiated or starved to death. Certainly no hunter would catch food that way, but the bodies of the snip’s crew were so bizarre that one could scarcely imagine them actively pursuing food.

Others suggested the double-doored room served almost exactly the opposite function: a safety feature to prevent any of the animals aboard the ship from escaping — it was, after all, an ark — while crewmembers were disembarking.

Novato doubted both theories. She was certain there was another, more elegant explanation, but no matter how hard she contemplated it, the answer remained elusive.

Oh, well
, she thought.
Just one of many things about this ship I don’t understand.

As she had countless times before, Novato squeezed through the half-closed door with her lamp, entering the vast ark, looking for a miracle to help save her people.

Afsan’s recovery was remarkable. His shoulder had been easy enough to reposition, but getting the broken pieces of his skull to line up properly had been difficult and painful. Mondark had used gut ties to sew shut the gashes on Afsan’s muzzle and head, Afsan having remained stoically silent as the surgeon’s needle repeatedly pierced his skin.

Afsan had spent the night of the accident, and the one that followed, lying on Mondark’s surgical table, slowly regaining strength. Finally, when he was well enough to move, Afsan’s assistant, the lanky Pal-Cadool, had come to take him home.

That had been twenty days ago. Mondark had insisted that Afsan return every ten days so that his injuries could be checked.

“How do you feel today?” asked the healer.

“All right, I suppose,” said Afsan, “although the new skin itches, and the side of my head is still tender to the touch.”

“That’s to be expected. Frankly, you’re doing much better than I’d have thought. I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

Afsan clicked his jaws together. The gaps in his sawtooth dentition where teeth had been knocked out had begun to fill in with pointed buds. “No one is more pleased than me that your diagnosis was in error. How do I look?”

Mondark’s turn to click his teeth. “Well, nothing I could do would make you pretty, Afsan. If you want miracles, you’ll have to see a priest. But on the whole, you look remarkably well. Your scars are bright yellow, but the scabbing has diminished. Your back is still bruised around your shoulder blade, but that will clear up in time. Does it still give you pain?”

“Yes. But it’s getting better.”

“Good. And you’ve been following my advice about no heavy lifting?”

“Right,” said Afsan. “I’ve been skipping my usual shift on the docks.”

“Good. Now, let me remove your stitches. I’m going to touch your face.”

Mondark used a tiny pair of scissors to gently lift and cut each of the gut strings. Then, using his claws as pincers, he pulled the little threads out. Despite his efforts at stoicism, Afsan winced slightly as each one came free.

After removing the stitches on Afsan’s muzzle, the healer repeated the process for the ones on the side of his head. Eventually he stopped, but for some reason he didn’t move away from Afsan’s face. After a few moments, Mondark said, “How are your eyes?”

Afsan’s voice was cold. “Your repartee is slipping, Doctor. That’s not very funny.”

“I mean, there’s something different about your eyelids. It’s almost as if… Afsan, forgive me, but can you open your eyelids?”

“I never do that. It hurts to have the sockets exposed.”

“I know, but … forgive me, I’d like to open them myself. I’m going to touch your face.”

Afsan flinched at the sensation of Mondark’s fingers on the side of his head. He felt a strange coldness as his left eyelid was peeled open.

The healer sucked in his breath. “By the eggshells of the hunters…”

“What? What is it?”

“Afsan, can you see me?”

“Can you see me?”

“Doctor, what
are
you talking about?”

Without any warning, Mondark’s fingers were on Afsan’s other eyelid, prying it open. “God,” he said.

With Afsan’s green lids peeled back, Mondark could see into his eye sockets. From the bottom of each pink fleshy well, a wet all-black sphere, about half the size of a normal Quintaglio eye, stared out at him.

Mondark had Afsan force his eyelids open while he brought a candle close to Afsan’s face. Quintaglio pupils were hard to discern against the all-black sclera, and light played across the wet surface making it all the more difficult to see, but there could be no doubt: Afsan’s pupils were contracting in response to the candlelight.

“Eyes don’t regenerate,” Afsan said, incredulous. “They’re like internal organs. Damage to them is permanent.”

Mondark moved across the room; too much closeness was bad for both of them. “Usually, that’s true. But very, very rarely, an organ, even an eye, will grow back. It usually only happens to young children, but it’s not unheard-of in adults.”

“But it was twenty kilodays ago that I was blinded. Why would my eyes be coming back now?”

“No doubt your recent head wound has something to do with it. You had to regenerate a lot of bone, a lot of flesh, a lot of muscle. Somehow your body went on to regenerate your eyes, too. Of course, they’re not fully back yet; they’re only about half normal size.”

Afsan shook his head. “That’s incredible.” And then, after a moment, he spoke again, his voice tremulous, as if he feared the answer. “So when the eyes have finished regenerating, will I be able to see again?”

Mondark was quiet for a time. “I don’t know. Your eyes have already regenerated in all functional aspects. Oh, they’re still too small; presumably they’ll continue to grow to fill the sockets. But the lenses are clear, the pupils are responsive, and both eyes track left and right in unison. Whether the eyes will actually work for vision, I don’t know.” Another pause. “You say you can’t see anything now?”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even when I brought that candle flame close a moment ago?”

“No, not a thing. It’s pitch black, just like it’s been since … since Yenalb did this to me.”

“Well, come back in ten days. And come immediately if you get any hint of vision — a flash of light, a blurry image, anything.”

“I will, Mondark.” Afsan faced him from across the room, his eyelids open, the half-size black spheres appearing to look at him from the bottoms of their sockets.

The
Dasheter
continued to sail in. It was clear that they were approaching a small group of islands. Discounting the icy polar caps, until moments ago Land and its attendant archipelagos had been the only known dry ground in the world.

But now there was someplace else: a new land with possibly untold riches. Not gold or diamonds; those weren’t the types of riches Toroca was looking for. No, his Geological Survey sought valuables of another kind: things that could be used to aid in the effort to get the Quintaglio people off their doomed world.

The chain of islands — Toroca could see six discrete bodies now — seemed to be volcanic. Each was conical, a ragged mountain rising out of the water. Lush vegetation covered the flat lands around the bases of the volcanoes and much of the volcanic cones, as well.

“Drop anchor!” shouted Captain Keenir. Four members of his crew struggled with the big wheel that paid out the chain. They put their backs into it, channeling the territorial anger such close proximity would normally engender. They were still two thousand paces from the nearest island, but Keenir wouldn’t risk bringing the
Dasheter
closer until he was sure the waters were free of obstructions.

Two crewmembers were working on the foresail booms, untying the huge red sheets. The snapping of the sails had been a constant background; its end made for a curious reverse-deafness. Toroca cocked his head and listened to the quieter sounds of the anchor chain uncoiling, of waves slapping against the wooden hull, and — was there something else on the wind? Briefly there, but now gone? A rhythmic pounding, like hunting drums? No, of course not. Doubtless it had just been Toroca’s own heartbeat thundering in his earholes as his senses adjusted to the change in sound quality.

“That’s as far as it’ll go!” shouted a voice. Toroca turned to see a mate, her red leather cap bright in the white sunlight, indicating the wooden wheel that held the anchor chain. Toroca thought briefly that the bright red caps worn by Keenir’s crew suggested inflated dewlaps, like those of males in full mating display. He shook his head; he’d been on board the ship much too long.

Keenir made a hand signal indicating he understood that the anchor had failed to find bottom. It mattered little: with the sails down, the Dasheter wasn’t going anywhere. “Shore boats!” shouted the captain in his gravelly voice. Sailors began pulling back the leather sheets that covered the
Dasheter
’s four auxiliary craft.

Keenir turned to Toroca. “I hope there’s game on those islands,” he said, claws dancing in and out of their sheaths. “I’m sick of fish and salted thunderbeast.”