Fossil Hunter

*45*

“Afsan!”

Afsan was lying on his boulder at Rockscape, snoozing. Gork was pacing quietly back and forth.

“Afsan!” Dybo shouted again, running through the field to the ancient arrangement of boulders, the stubs of his arms ending in bright yellow rings—the first signs of new growth.

The blind advisor woke up and lifted his head from the rock. Gork, moving with a side-to-side motion, waddled out to meet Dybo, its forked tongue slipping in and out of its mouth. Dybo bent to pet the lizard, then sighed when he realized he didn’t have anything to pet it with. Gork didn’t seem to mind. It nuzzled Dybo’s legs.

Afsan pushed himself off his rock and stood, leaning back on his tail. “What is it?”

“They’ve found Maliden.”

Afsan threw back his muzzle in a yawn, still not completely awake. “Who?”

“The imperial bloodpriest! The one who was there at my hatching! They’ve found him. He was brought here under guard from northernmost Chu’toolar.”

“Have you spoken to him yet?”

“No,” said Dybo. “I wanted you to be with me.”

Afsan groped for the harness that Gork wore, and he and Dybo headed back to Capital City, the warm afternoon sun beating down on them from the mauve sky.

“Maliden is badly hurt,” said Dybo as they walked back. “He, ah, resisted arrest.”

“And your agents were overly zealous?”

“It came close to being a territorial challenge, I’m afraid. His injuries are severe for one as old as he. They say he won’t live long.”

“It must have been a hard ride for him, severely injured, all the way back from Chu’toolar.”

Dybo nodded. “Hard indeed.”

There was no specific place for holding prisoners, since so rarely was someone accused of a crime. They entered the new palace office building, Dybo leading the way, Gork helping Afsan to avoid obstacles. Afsan looked somewhat pained as it became apparent they were heading down a ramp into the basement. “What’s wrong?” said Dybo.

“Nothing.”

“Your muzzle shows blue, friend.”

“It’s—I’m sorry, I’m just remembering my own time held prisoner in a basement, charged with heresy. My apologies; I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

Dybo said nothing. There was nothing to say. They continued down the ramp and rounded out onto the stone floor, their toeclaws and Cork’s making little scraping sounds as they continued along. Two imperial guards stood outside a wooden door. Dybo dismissed them—there were too many people in this confined space as it was. He, Afsan, and Gork entered the musty room, and Dybo quickly moved to the far side, maximizing the space between them. The room contained a couple of wooden crates; it was obviously simply a storage area. Looking old and haggard, flopped on his belly in the center of the floor, was Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest. “Maliden,” said Dybo.

The oldster lifted his muzzle slightly. “Your Luminance,” he said. “And Afsan. Hahat dan.”

“You have no territorial permission to give,” said Dybo. “You are a prisoner.”

Maliden’s voice was a wheeze. “I committed no crime.”

Afsan’s tail swished. “Yes, you did.”

Maliden looked at Afsan, then grunted as though the mere effort of lifting his muzzle again had caused him great pain. “You’re wrong, Afsan.”

“Wrong?” Afsan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Do you deny that you tampered with the selection of the Emperor-to-be?”

Maliden wheezed softly. “I have done nothing that was criminal,” he said at last.

“You’re evading the question,” said Afsan. “Tell me—”

Maliden’s breath sounded like paper tearing. “I will say nothing in front of Dybo.”

“I am Emperor,” Dybo said. “You are accountable to me.”

Maliden shook his head, then moaned. That, too, had hurt. “I don’t doubt your authority, Dybo. Indeed, I honor you for it. But I will be dead soon—within the daytenth, I’d warrant. Leave me, and I’ll make my final statement to Afsan. Stay, and I’ll say no more.” He paused, catching his ragged breath. “You can’t force me to speak. Any physical coercion would finish me off right now, I’m sure.” A long, protracted wheeze, then: “Leave, Dybo. Please.”

Dybo looked at Afsan, who, of course, did not look back. At last, his tone ripe with frustration, the Emperor said, “Very well.” He stomped from the room. Without arms there was no way for Dybo to slam the door, but he glared at it as if that were his wish.

Afsan pushed down gently on Cork’s head, and the lizard flopped onto its belly, limbs sprawled out at its side. He then let go of the harness and moved nearer to Maliden, crouching down.

“Now,” said Afsan quietly, “tell me about your crimes.”

“Crimes?” Maliden clicked his teeth, ever so softly. “Ah, Afsan, you are as they said. You believe there’s a fundamental conflict between you who are scholars and we who are priests.” Maliden’s wheezing punctuated his speech. “But it’s not true, Afsan. We both want the same thing for the people—we want them to prosper and be happy and well.”

Afsan shook his head. “You wanted control, you wanted to be able to steer society in the direction you wished it to go.”

With a grunt, Maliden forced his muzzle off the ground again. “No,” he said at last. “You’re wrong. Look at Dybo! A finer leader we’ve never had. He’s strong enough to exert his authority when it’s required, but calm enough to let others bring forth good ideas. You yourself, Afsan, with your goal of getting us off this world. Would Len-Lends have listened to you? No, of course not. She was too forceful, too determined to defend her own territory, to lead according to her vision, no matter what.”

“So you chose someone who would be more malleable, someone whose views you could shape.”

“We chose someone who might be more moderate, Afsan. Only that. I’ve been told about what happened here in the streets while I was gone. Violence, death, blood spilling everywhere. It’s a never-ending cycle. You, Afsan, even you, killed then.”

“To dispatch one in dagamant is not killing.”

“Semantics. Polite beliefs that let us live with ourselves afterward. Don’t talk to me about such things. In my time, I have swallowed whole more than a thousand Quintaglio children. I shudder to say I even came to like the taste of meat so young, so tender. We use euphemisms to describe it, and pretend that we’re not killers, but we are, to the very core, killers not only of animals for food but of our own kind. Murderers.”

“I don’t understand,” said Afsan.

Maliden’s breathing was becoming more ragged, as if the effort of speaking so much was robbing him of his last remaining strength. “You mean you don’t want to understand. The newsriders are all abuzz with Toroca’s theory of evolution, of the survival of the fittest, and how that process changes species. Toroca thinks this is a new idea. He’s wrong. My order has understood it since ancient times, understood it because we practiced it. We were the agent of selection. Every generation, we made sure only the strongest survived. And that did change us, changed us as a race. With each passing generation, we became more territorial, not less. We grew increasingly violent. Yes, we became hardier, too, but at a terrible cost. We’re crippled as a people, unable to work together. It became apparent during the reign of Dybo’s mother that it was only a matter of time before we were driven to war. To war, Afsan! To killing and killing and killing until there was no one left to kill.”

“A Quintaglio does not kill other Quintaglios,” said Afsan.

Maliden coughed. “So teach the scrolls. And yet we are killers. What happened here was echoed throughout Land: dagamant, the streets flowing with blood. We are poised at the edge of a cliff, Afsan—on the verge of a massive, worldwide territorial frenzy that will go on and on and on.” He paused, catching his breath. “Aggression reigns over us; it’s the trait we’ve bred for. And Lends was too aggressive a leader.” He paused again. “You met her; do you not agree?”

Afsan thought back to the first and only time he had met Len-Lends. He had gone to seek permission to have young prince Dybo accompany him on the rites of passage, both the ritual first hunt and the pilgrimage. Alone in Lends’s ruling room, she had held up her left hand, the three metal bracelets of her office clinking together as she did so. “I will allow him to go with you, but”—she unsheathed her first claw—”you will”—and then her second—”be”—the third—”responsible”—the fourth— “for his”—the fifth—”safe return.” She had let the light in the room glint off her polished claws for several heartbeats as she flexed her fingers. A threat. A threat of physical violence; the very leader of all the people deliberately striking fear into the heart of a child.

“Yes,” said Afsan at last. “She was aggressive.” Maliden took in breath, a long, shuddery sound. “When she laid her first clutch, the clutch from which the new Emperor would be drawn, I saw a chance to try to change that. I selected the strongest male—it was indeed Rodlox—and sent him far away. The others, in descending order of strength, were sent to the remaining provinces. And Dybo, smallest and weakest of them all, did indeed remain here.”

“But why did you do this with the imperial children? Why not with the general population?”

Maliden winced; he was in great pain. “If it had worked, perhaps we would have. But remember, although I am head bloodpriest, I have my opponents, even within my order. It would have been difficult to keep such a change from becoming public. This was easier. Although a closely guarded secret, all eight imperial children always got to live ever since the days of Larsk; I made no change in that. I could not be sure of the results of my—my experiment, to use one of your words—if I’d done it differently.”

“A breeding experiment.”

“Yes.”

“And it was a success.”

“In most ways,” said Maliden, his voice now much fainter than when he’d begun speaking. “Dybo is the best ruler we’ve ever had; you know that to be true. Without an equitable person such as him on the throne slab, you’d never have gotten your exodus project off the ground, so to speak. Indeed, you’d be dead—long since executed.” He paused.

Afsan, uncomfortable in the prolonged crouch, rose to his feet and rocked back on his tail. “Incredible.”

“Every word is true, Afsan.” Maliden’s attenuated voice was all but lost in the room.

“Incredible,” Afsan said again.

“You see the priesthood as your enemy; as the opponent of science. I can understand that, I suppose, for it was a priest, Det-Yenalb, who put a knife point into each of your eyes. But that was Yenalb alone, and even he thought what he was doing was for the good of the people.”

Afsan nodded slowly. “I know that.”

“And I know that what you are doing is also for the good of the people,” said Maliden.

“Thank you.”

“But, now, please accept that what I did was likewise for the common good.”

Afsan was quiet for a time. “I accept it.”

Maliden let his breath out. It took a long time, as though his lungs were so congested that the air was stymied in its attempts to escape. “I’m coming to an interesting moment, Afsan,” Maliden said at last. “I’ve been a priest for a long time. I’ve told others what to believe about God, about life after death. Soon, I’ll find out for myself if I’ve been right.”

Afsan nodded. “It’s something we all wonder about.”

“But I’m supposed to know. And, here, when it counts most of all, I find that I don’t. I really, down deep, don’t know that’s about to happen to me.”

“I don’t know, either, Maliden.” A pause. “Are you afraid?”

A voice almost nonexistent: “Yes.”

“Would you like me to stay with you?”

“It is much to ask.”

“I was with my master, Saleed, when he passed on. I was with my son, Drawtood, when he passed on, too.”

“What was it like?”

“I didn’t see Drawtood, of course, but Saleed was… calm. He seemed ready.”

“I’m not sure I am.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be, either.”

“But, yes, Afsan, I would like you to stay.”

“I will.”

“When I’m gone, will you tell Dybo that he was indeed the weakest?”

“He’s my friend.”

Maliden sighed. “Of course.”

“And I would never hurt my friend.”

“Thank you,” Maliden said.

They waited quietly together.

I, too, waited quietly, waited for millions of years.

I missed the Jijaki. None of the other worlds I had seeded had yet borne sapient life, although I had hopes for some of them. But my best prospects, I was sure, were the mammal planet and the dinosaur moon. I watched anxiously while this galaxy completed a quarter-revolution, desperately afraid that I had miscalculated, that, because of my interference, no intelligent life would evolve on either world.

But on the reptiles’ new home, despite the shock of transplantation, the slow and steady increase in brain-body ratios continued unabated. Likewise, the mammals, now that all niches were open to them on the Crucible, continued to climb up the same curve.

And, at last, intelligent life appeared, nearly simultaneously, on both worlds.

The dominant land life on the Crucible eventually came to call itself Humanity and to call their world Earth. In a place that came to be known as Canada, human geologists found the Burgess shale, fine-grained fossil-rich stones dating right from what they called the Cambrian explosion, a vast diversification of life, with dozens of new, fundamentally different body plans appearing virtually simultaneously.

Almost all of these body plans died out quickly on the Crucible, although I transplanted specimens of them to many worlds. One of those, the five-eyed, long-trunked Opabinia, was the ancestor of the Jijaki, those long-gone cousins the humans would never know.

For their part, on the moon I’d moved them to, the intelligent beings descended from Earth’s dinosaurs—in particular, from a dwarf tyrannosaur called Nanotyrannus—named themselves Quintaglios, “the People of Land.”

I thought I had succeeded. I thought I had allowed both sentient forms to flourish. But it eventually became horribly apparent that there was another factor I had failed to consider.

This universe differs from the one I evolved in. Here chaos reigns: sensitivity to initial conditions drives all systems. I thought I had done well, picking the third moon of a gas-giant world. But there were thirteen other moons, moons whose orbits and masses I could measure only approximately. I hadn’t been able to reliably plot orbits more than a few thousand years into the future. Nor could I accurately gauge the minuscule but not irrelevant pulls of the other planets in that system.

The tugs of all these masses produce a chaotic dance to which even the dancers can’t predict the outcome. The orbits of the moons changed over time, and eventually the third become the first, growing closer, and closer still, and at last, too close, to the planet it orbited. The Quintaglio world—now the innermost moon—continued to be tidally locked, so its day matched the length of its orbit, but now its days, days that are numbered, lasted slightly less than half the length of those on the Crucible.

I can nudge a comet ever so slightly, can attract hydrogen gas if conditions are favorable, even spin corkscrews of dark matter, but I can’t move worlds.

The Quintaglios have a myth about a God who had lost her hands. Without my Jijaki, I have lost mine.

But I watch.

And I hope.