Fossil Hunter (27 page)

Oh, it made sense that it
could
have happened that way, but that’s not the way it did. Fish and amphibians appeared simultaneously in the fossil record. Evolution had nothing to do with their arrival.

Arrival.
Oddly appropriate, that word.

Toroca slapped the deck in frustration. He’d figure it out eventually. He knew he would.

And he knew something else, too: that this, not some silly feat of hunting, was what he owed to his father.

Once again it was Biltog who was doing the watch in the lookout’s bucket.

And once again, he let out a shout of “Land ho!”

But this time it was land indeed, not a frozen waste of ice and snow. In fact, it was Land — the word written as a left-facing glyph, instead of a right-facing one, referring specifically to the vast equatorial mass upon which the Fifty Packs roamed.

The
Dasheter
’s sails snapped in the steady east-west wind. Toroca reflected briefly that he’d gotten used to that sound, and to the groaning of the ship’s timber, and the scraping of claws on wooden decks, and the slapping of waves against the hull. He was so used to them, in fact, that he barely heard them anymore, but thought that their absence might be almost deafening for his first few days back on solid ground.

Although they had departed from Fra’toolar, they were returning to Capital province, at least for a few days, so that they could take on supplies, and so that Toroca could have meetings with the leader of The Family — a left-facing glyph again — and with members of his own family.

The
Dasheter
continued in toward the shore, the rocky cliffs of Capital province, similar to although not as spectacular as those along the coast of Fra’toolar, towering up ahead of them, and, in the background, the ragged cones of the Ch’mar volcanoes.

The docks were approaching with visible speed.

The
Dasheter
was singing out its identification call: five loud bells and two deafening drumbeats, then the same sounds again, but softer. Then loudly again, then another soft iteration, over and over as the mighty vessel slipped in next to a vacant pier.

Home
, thought Toroca.

Home at last.

The
Dasheter
had only just docked at Capital City when Toroca was told about the death of his sister Haldan and his brother Yabool. All other concerns — even unpacking the specimens he had carefully collected in the Antarctic — were put aside, and he immediately set out for Prath.

Prath, a half-day’s march southwest of the Capital, was the place of the dead. Here the ground was made up of the tops of lava columns. But the life had gone out of the once-liquid stone, and instead of glowing red, the rock was cool and black. The tops of the columns were each not much bigger than Toroca’s foot. They were polygonal, with straight vertical sides. Most were six-sided, though a few were pentagons and some were squares. Each was a slightly different height from those adjacent to it. In places, one low hexagon of basalt was surrounded by six taller ones, and the declivity had filled with rainwater.

At the southern periphery of the field, the columns rose high into the sky, and their bases were littered with the black rubble of pieces that had broken free and crashed down.

At some places, scraggly green and brown vegetation poked through, growing up from cracks between adjacent polygons. Many of the stone columns were covered with lichens, pale blue and pale green and pale pink.

Haldan’s body was long gone, dragged away by some predator in the night, no doubt.

Yabool’s body had been brought here two days ago.

Wingfingers circled overhead.

They would have their chance, as would the four-footed scavenger lizards that skittered over the black stones. A hunter was part of the food cycle, and Yabool’s body would be given back to the environment.

But not yet. Not until all those who wished to had had the chance to say goodbye.

Toroca moved along the rocks, carefully picking the appropriate stones to step upon. It was difficult terrain, but the people of Capital City had used Prath as a funereal site for generations. Even the body of Larsk had been laid out here.

Toroca was not too surprised to find that someone was already standing over the body. He used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Why, it was Dynax, one of his two remaining sisters. She must have come in from Chu’toolar upon hearing the news.

The basalt plain dipped so that Toroca was looking down upon his sister and the body of his brother from a slight elevation. Dynax’s back was to him, but her unique brown and blue sash, combining the disciplines of hamrak and delbarn, made her easy to identify. Yabool’s body was wrapped tightly in thunderbeast hide, keeping out insects and predators until the five days of mourning were over.

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.

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.”