Foreigner

*11*

The twenty days on the island of the Others passed quickly, and now it was time for Toroca to check in with the Dasheter. Jawn offered a boat and rowers to take Toroca out, but Toroca repeated what he’d tried to make clear over and over, although his speech was more fluent now: “Do not come near the Dasheter,” he said in the Other language. “To do so would be bad.”

“I still do not understand,” said Jawn. “I am curious about your sailing ship.”

“Accept my words,” said Toroca. “I will return soon. I am sorry you cannot see my sailing ship.”

Jawn didn’t seem satisfied, but he let it go. “Swim safely.”

“I will,” said Toroca, and, with that, he climbed down the rope ladder and entered the water. It was a long swim out to the Dasheter, but the weather was good. His tail propelled him along.

Toroca’s mind was full of thoughts as he swam. The Others were so unlike Quintaglios. Cooked food; ‘cooked’ being a word Jawn had taught him. No territoriality; even to Toroca, the open displays of physical contact the Others exhibited were distasteful. And they used tools to kill animals; Toroca had seen many of those metal fire sticks. Toroca shuddered as he swam along: he hadn’t realized just what had happened that first day. Someone had shot at him as he’d approached the shore. Jawn had apologized later; the person on the pier had mistaken Toroca for an alligator.

An alligator! Oh, the ignominy!

Toroca continued to slice through the waves, occasionally using his feet to steer in the direction he wanted to go. With the giant Face of God hanging stationary overhead, navigation was easy. The Face was waning gibbous now, its unilluminated limb looking dark purple against the lighter violet of early morning sky. The water was still cooler than Toroca would have liked. Part of him was sad to be leaving the Others, even though he fully intended to return, but it would be good to see faces that were green instead of yellow. He’d missed Keenir’s gravelly voice, and Babnol’s gentle clicking of teeth, and even old Biltog’s endless stories about days gone by. Why, soon he’d—

What was that?

Something big was coming toward him, wave tops churning in its wake. Toroca went below the surface and saw it front-on: a body circular in cross section, thicker than Toroca’s own torso, with three equally spaced tapered projections, one on top and two at the lower sides. He kicked sideways to get another angle on the animal.

Oh-oh.

From the side, he could see that the upper projection was a stiff dorsal fin, and the two side projections were flippers. The body was streamlined, starting with an elongated snout and ending in a large vertical tail fin. At the pelvis, two more small flippers projected from the creature’s sides.

A fish-lizard. The Dasheter’s fishing nets often caught small ones; they provided a welcome dose of reptilian flesh in the diet. But this one was half again as long as Toroca. The body was slate gray in color and the visible part of the eyes looked like tiny mercury drops in the middle of raised scleral bone rings. Its nostrils were just in front of its eyes. And projecting forward from its face was that long, tapered snout, lined with sharp teeth.

The beast quickly turned so that Toroca saw it head-on again. There was no doubt: it was coming after him. Toroca swam well for a land creature, but this animal was in its native element. There was no chance that he could outdistance it.

Suddenly the fish-lizard was upon him, its long, narrow jaws opening wide. Toroca felt a hundred little daggers tear into him as the jaws closed on his thigh. Clouds of red appeared in the water. Toroca pounded his fists on the creature’s snout. That surprised it; it was not used to battling prey that had hands. The fish-lizard rotated around, its giant tail slapping Toroca. Toroca struggled for the surface, gulping air as soon as he broke through the waves. The animal twisted its body and tried to bring its needle-like prow to bear again.

Toroca had eaten enough small fish-lizards over the kilodays to know their anatomy: the dorsal fin had no bones in it at all, and the giant tail fin was only supported along its lower edge by an extension of the backbone. The upper prong of the fin was pure meat. Toroca’s jaws were still open wide from taking in air. He chomped down on the upper part of the tail fin, his curving teeth easily slicing into it. The fish-lizard, which had been about to bite into Toroca’s leg, opened its own jaws wide, letting out a silent underwater scream.

Toroca filled his lungs once more. The fish-lizard was an air-breather, too, but it was cold-blooded and could go much longer between breaths, especially since its body, unlike Toroca’s, was built for subsurface maneuvering. The creature moved almost effortlessly, a little flick of a paddle here, a gentle movement of the tail there. Toroca looked up at the Face of God overhead. He wished for a moment that it really was the countenance of the deity; he most certainly did not want to die out here.

The fish-lizard was swinging around to attack again. Toroca felt the sharp teeth cut into his tail. Blood was clouding the water, some his own, some the lizard’s. Toroca hadn’t had a chance to examine his own wounds yet; he didn’t know if they were superficial or if he was hemorrhaging to death. And, he thought, God help me if there’s a shark in the area; about the only thing that made Quintaglio dagamant look tame was a shark driven to frenzy by blood.

Toroca tried beating on the thing’s gray torso with his fists in hopes of driving it away, but it seemed determined to make a meal of him. Perhaps he could gouge its eyes out; but no, the scleral rings of bone afforded a lot of protection.

Toroca lashed with his tail to get out of the way. The lizard changed trajectory, barreling toward him. Its jaws were closed, perhaps to better streamline its form when moving quickly.

Suddenly Toroca had an idea. Instead of trying to swim away, he surged forward, his tail undulating, his legs kicking. He almost thought he was going to be impaled on the thing’s long snout. But as the fish-lizard came close, he grabbed the snout, one hand gripping it near its tip, where his handspan was easily enough to wrap around the snout’s circumference, the other hand grasping it at its base, where it joined the reptile’s head. He then brought his right knee up directly under the middle of the snout and, with all the strength in his arms, bent the snout downward. It took everything he had, but at last he felt the long jaw bones snap. New blood mixed with the cool water. Now that there was only ligament and flesh holding the snout together, Toroca finished the job with a massive bite from his own jaws, severing the fish-lizard’s long prow cleanly from its body. The lizard’s tail was smashing wildly left and right, but Toroca kicked out of the way, letting go of the snout, which slowly began to drift downward. The lizard, completely disarmed, tried to butt Toroca with its bloody front end but soon tired of that and swam away. Toroca doubtless had mortally wounded the animal, but he wondered if the reverse was also true. Treading water, he examined the bites on his thigh and tail. Both were still slowly oozing blood, but neither seemed particularly deep. Now that the fish-lizard was gone, the water was relatively calm—calmer, in fact, than it had been when he’d swum in the opposite direction twenty days before. He rested his head on the surface, and, with slow movements of his tail, glided gently onward.

“We spoke before about the names of your children,” said Mokleb, “but didn’t really get into your relationship with them. This is a unique area; I’d like to explore it.”

The sun was sliding down the western sky toward the Ch’mar volcanoes. Two pale moons—one crescent, one almost full—were visible despite the glare. A few silvery-white clouds twisted their way across the purple bowl of the sky.

Afsan’s face showed a mixture of emotions. “My children,” he said softly, adjusting his position on his rock. “And Novato’s, too, of course.” He shook his head slightly. “There were eight of them to begin with.”

“Yes.”

“One died in childhood. Helbark was his name. He succumbed to fever.” Afsan’s voice was full of sadness. “I was devastated when he died. It seemed so unfair. Like all of my children, Helbark had been spared the culling of the bloodpriest. It was as though God had given him the gift of life, but then snatched it away. Helbark died before ever saying his first word.” Afsan’s tail moved left and right. “You know, Mokleb, I’ve never seen any of my children; I was blinded before they came to Capital City. I felt I knew the other seven because I knew the tones they used, knew what caused their voices to sing with joy and what caused their words to tremble with anger or outrage. But Helbark… if there is an afterlife, Mokleb, I sometimes wonder if I would recognize him there. Or whether he would recognize me.”

Mokleb made a small sound, noncommittal. Afsan went on. “After Helbark died, Pal-Cadool and I had gone to the site of that kill everyone keeps talking about—the place where I helped bring down that giant thunderbeast. We found a stone there and took it back to the mountain of stones upon which the Hunter’s Shrine is built. You know the old legend? That each of the original five hunters had brought one stone there for every kill they’d made during their lives? Well, I wanted to bring a stone from one of my kills. Poor Helbark was far too young to have acquired a hunt or pilgrimage tattoo. I thought that maybe if a kill was consecrated in his name, it might help his passage into heaven. Pal-Cadool helped me climb the cairn so that my stone could be placed right at the summit, inside the Shrine—the structure made out of past hunt leaders’ bones. Most people don’t know about it, but on the far side of the stone cairn, there’s a hidden stairway leading to the summit. I couldn’t have made it otherwise.”

“A priest advised you to do this?”

Afsan shifted uncomfortably. “I rarely speak to priests,” he said.

“Of course, of course,” said Mokleb. A topic for another time. “But Helbark isn’t the only one of your children to have passed on, is he?”

Quietly: “No.”

“There was Haldan and Yabool.” A pause. “And Drawtood.”

Still quiet: “Yes.”

“How do you feel about what happened to them?”

Afsan’s tone was bitter. “How would you expect me to feel?”

“I have no expectations at all, Afsan. That’s why I ask.”

Afsan nodded, and then, “They say I’m gifted when it comes to solving puzzles, Mokleb.” He fell silent, perhaps reluctant to continue.

Mokleb waited patiently for several beats, then, as a gentle prod, she agreed: “Yes, that’s what they say.”

“Well, most puzzles don’t count for anything. Whether you solve them or not doesn’t really matter. But that one…” He fell silent again. Mokleb waited. “That one mattered. That one was for real. Once Haldan had been murdered“—the word, so rarely spoken, sounded funny, archaic—”once she had been murdered, the puzzle was to figure out who was responsible.”

“And you did,” said Mokleb.

“But not in time!” Afsan’s voice was full of anguish now. “Not in time. Don’t you see? It wasn’t until Drawtood killed again, taking the life of my son Yabool, that I figured it out.”

“Murder is such an uncommon crime,” said Mokleb. “You can’t blame yourself for needing more data.”

“More data,” repeated Afsan. He made a snorting sound. “More data. Another body, you mean. Another dead child of mine.”

Mokleb was silent.

“Forgive me,” Afsan said after a time. “I find these memories difficult to deal with.”

Mokleb nodded.

“It’s just that, well…”

“Well what?”

“Nothing.” Afsan’s blind face turned toward the crumbling edge of the cliff.

“No, you had a thought. Please express it.”

Afsan nodded and apparently rallied some inner strength. “It’s just that I always wonder why Drawtood committed those murders.”

“You were with him when he passed away.”

“Yes.”

“It’s commonly believed that he confessed to you before swallowing the poison that killed him.”

“I’ve never discussed the specifics of that night,” said Afsan.

Mokleb waited.

“Yes,” said Afsan at last, “Drawtood did speak of his reasons. He… he did not trust his siblings. He was afraid of them.”

“Having siblings is unheard-of, Afsan. Who knows how one is supposed to react?”

“Exactly. But if having siblings is unknown, so is, is—let me coin a word: so is parenting.”

“Parenting?”

Afsan clicked his teeth. “Saleed would have scowled fiercely at me for turning a noun into a verb. He hated neologisms. But, yes, parenting: the job of being a parent. And I mean ‘being a parent’ far beyond just having been involved in fertilizing or laying eggs. I knew who my children were, had daily contact with them, was in part responsible for their teaching and upbringing.”

“Parenting,” said Mokleb again. The word was strange indeed.

“That’s the worst of it,” said Afsan. “I was Drawtood’s parent, his father. All children have something in common with their parents; studies in plant and animal heredity make that clear. But my role in Drawtood’s composition was greater than that. I knew him! And yet he ended up a killer.”

“I don’t see your point,” said Mokleb.

“Don’t you? Maybe some responsibility goes along with being a parent. Maybe I failed in some way at what I should have done.”

Mokleb shrugged. “There’s so little data in this area.”

“Data again,” said Afsan. “Perhaps if I’d seen my children more as children and less as data, things would have been different.”

“But most children have no parents, not in the sense that you’re using the word.”

“That’s true,” said Afsan, although he didn’t sound mollified. “Still, it’s something to think about: the relationship between parent and child.”

Mokleb stared out over the precipice at the choppy waters beyond. “It is indeed,” she said at last.

The four ladders finally stopped growing; no new rungs emerged from the apex of the pyramid. The ladders stood silent, stark against the harsh gray sky of stormy Fra’toolar, rising up and up until they faded into invisibility. The whole pyramid seemed dead: nothing was happening at all. Still, Novato waited a full day before she, Garios, and Delplas finally entered. The openings in the centers of each of the pyramid’s sides were fourteen paces wide: wide enough that three of them could walk abreast with a minimally acceptable seven paces between each other. The sounds of their toeclaws echoed loudly as they made their way down the long blue tunnel, a tunnel that was miraculously lit with dim red light from panels in the ceiling. The floor, although made of the obdurate blue stuff, was roughened to provide traction, as if inviting people to walk down this terrifying path into the very heart of the structure.

Novato’s pulse raced. She glanced left and right, saw that Garios and Delplas had their claws exposed, saw the nervousness in their expressions. The whole pyramid was about three hundred paces wide, and Novato was silently counting off paces as they continued into its heart. The tunnel continued right into the center: a hundred and forty paces into the vast structure. Novato tried not to contemplate the huge weight of alien material over her head.

At last they came to the central vertical shaft. The inside base of the tower was square, fourteen paces on a side. The sides of the interior shaft were the bases of the four great ladders. They rose up and up, as high as Novato could see, converging to a point some fantastic distance above her head. Novato was sure the apparent convergence occurred long before the actual top of the tower was reached.

She looked at the stretched ladders, large open rectangles running up their impossible lengths. A brave wingfinger, apparently not perturbed by the alien structure, had built a nest on the crosspiece at the bottom of one of the ladders, and the flying reptile’s white droppings streaked the gleaming blue material.

Novato tried to picture the kind of giant being that might climb such a ladder, but she knew, of course, that it had not been physical giants who were responsible for this structure. Indeed, the absolute opposite was true: incredibly tiny engineers had built this. And yet the image of giants would not leave her mind. The builders of this tower to the sky were giants in comparison to the Quintaglios. She leaned back on her tail, looking up, humbled.

And then her heart began pounding erratically; she had to force herself not to run out of the structure. Something was approaching from up above.

The thing moved silently. Only moments ago it had emerged from the vanishing point far overhead, but already it was looming larger and larger, coming down one of the corners of the shaft. It was big and metallic, and it was moving quickly although it wasn’t actually falling.

Soon it began to slow—and a good thing, too, for otherwise it would have smashed into the floor. Novato could hear a faint descending whistle as the object came closer. It was as big as a shed or large carriage, and its bottom fit perfectly into the right angle made by two adjacent inner tower walls. The rest of it was rounded, like a beetle’s body.

Novato, Garios, and Delplas quickly moved across the tower’s base so they, quite literally, would be on the safe side. The giant beetle came to a stop at ground level. There it sat for a few moments, then its whole surface seemed to turn brighter, more shiny, as if it were liquefying, and suddenly a large rectangular opening appeared in its side, revealing that its interior was almost completely hollow. Once the door had appeared, the structure’s surface became duller, more solid-looking.

And there it sat.

Novato moved over to it and cautiously peered through the doorway. There didn’t seem to be much inside, but—

Incredible.

She could see right through the walls. From the outside, the thing was opaque, built from thick metal, but in looking through the walls from the inside, she could see right through to the blue material of the tower itself. She was terrified to step inside the beetle lest its walls grow liquid again and the door disappear, trapping her within. But she did stick her head into the doorway briefly to confirm that she could indeed see out in all directions. Looking up, she could see the four ladder-like sides of the tower stretching impossibly high overhead and, craning her neck around, she could even see her own palm pressed flat against the beetle’s outer hull.

A few opaque objects were visible within the beetle’s walls, but basically from the inside it seemed to be made of glass while from the outside its appearance was that of burnished metal. Novato had spent a lot of time working with various materials in her studies of optics, but she’d never encountered anything with properties like this. She pulled her head out of the doorway and extended a fingerclaw. The beetle wasn’t made of harder-than-diamond stuff, anyway: she had little trouble scratching its metal outer hull.

Garios was leaning back on his tail, his long muzzle looking up. “You were right,” he said softly.

Novato looked at him. “What?”

“You were right. Emergency equipment, that’s what it was—emergency equipment for the ark-makers.” He pointed at the silver beetle. “There it is—a lifeboat to take them back to space.” He paused. “Only one of the three emergency kits was still… still viable after millions of kilodays. Perhaps the second would have built a flying machine to take the ark-makers back home, and the third… well, God only knows what the third would have built. But this one, the one that survived, has made some sort of lifeboat.”

Novato realized in an instant that Garios was correct. And she also realized a more wondrous, a more terrifying, thought: that soon she herself would have to take a ride aboard this lifeboat.