Foreigner qa-3 Read online

  It was deserted.

  Afsan wasn’t there.

  Mokleb felt her heart sink.

  She had been too hard on him. He’d curtailed their sessions. The penalty of wasting part of a volume of Saleed’s treatise was hardly enough in the face of what she’d made him go through last time.

  She was about to leave when a thought struck her. She’d sat on a couple of the Rockscape boulders over the course of her long association with Afsan, but had never actually touched the one called Afsan’s rock. She made her way across the field, through the ancient geometric patterns, and came to the large, proud boulder. Mokleb reached out with her left hand and lightly patted the stone. It was worthy of Afsan: strong, hard, weather-beaten, but, despite all it had been through, placidly surviving.

  Surviving.

  She wondered if she’d ever see Afsan again, if he’d ever forgive her for their last session. She had no desire to be near anyone else today. She began to amble on in the same direction, heading through Rockscape toward the lands beyond.

  "Wait!"

  Mokleb turned. Emerging from the mouth of the path, beside the dense copse of trees, was Pal-Cadool. "Wait!" he shouted again, and ran toward her, his long legs covering the distance quickly. Mokleb stood dumbfounded as Cadool came within eight paces of her. "Don’t go," said Cadool. "Afsan is coming."

  She looked back toward the mouth of the path. Soon Afsan did indeed appear. He held his walking stick in his left hand, and his right was on Cork’s harness. Mokleb hurried over to Afsan as fast as she could with her bad knee, Cadool loping alongside. Once the distance between them had closed as much as it reasonably could, Mokleb blurted out, "I thought you weren’t coming."

  Afsan’s face was a portrait in joy. "I’m sorry, Mokleb," he said. And then, with a deep bow, "I overslept."

  *26*

  Mokleb and Afsan headed back to their usual rocks. Afsan was eager to understand all the implications of what Mokleb had revealed in their last session.

  "If your low mind remembers your culling by the bloodpriests," said Mokleb, "then the same is probably true for all Quintaglios. I suspect our suppressed memories of the culling manifest themselves most in the territorial challenge. When we end up in a fight with another, we don’t behave sensibly or logically or instinctively. Instead, our minds, our traumatized minds, cause us to fight uncontrollably until we or our opponent is dead."

  "You sound like Emperor Dybo. He thinks that trait in us will allow us to defeat the Others."

  Mokleb nodded. "He’s probably right."

  "But it sounds like you’re saying we’re insane."

  "That’s a strong word. I might say ’irrational’ instead. But yes, as a race, we’re deranged."

  "But by definition the majority is always sane. Insanity or irrationality is an aberration from the norm."

  "That’s a semantic game, Afsan, and a dangerous one to play. There was a time when many of our ancestors practiced cannibalism. Today, we find that concept abhorrent. There is a higher arbiter of conduct than simple mob majority."

  "Perhaps," said Afsan. "But what does the culling of the bloodpriest have to do with the territorial frenzy of dagamant? It sounds as though you’re trying to link the two."

  "I am indeed. It’s the traumatizing effect of the culling that causes us to have such a wild reaction to territorial invasions. Think about it! The very first time we see someone invade our territory — that someone being the bloodpriest — it results in death and destruction and unspeakable horror right in front of our eyes! No wonder our reaction to future invasions is so strong — far stronger than any animal instinct would require."

  Afsan’s tail shifted as he considered this. "It’s a neat theory, Mokleb, I’ll give you that. But you know what you suggest is only a pre-fact, only a proposition. You can’t test it."

  "Ah, good Afsan, that’s where you are wrong. It already has been tested."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Consider your son Toroca."

  "Yes?"

  "We’ve discussed him before. He has no sense of territoriality."

  "He doesn’t like people talking about that."

  "Well, doubtless it causes him some embarrassment. But it’s true, isn’t it? He feels no need to issue a challenge when another encroaches on his physical space."

  "That is correct."

  "And when he sees the Others, he, alone amongst those who have encountered them, has no adverse reaction. What was it his missive said? ’Mere sight of them triggers dagamant in all of us except me.’"

  "Yes."

  "Well, don’t you see? Don’t you see why that is? What’s different about Toroca?"

  "He’s — ah! No, Mokleb, it can’t be that simple…"

  "But it is! I’m sure of it. What’s different about Toroca is that he did not undergo the culling of the bloodpriest. None of the offspring of yourself and Wab-Novato did."

  "But not all of them are without territoriality," said Afsan.

  "No, that’s true, although as near as I’ve been able to determine, none of them has ever been involved in a territorial challenge."

  "It pains me to bring up this subject, Mokleb, but what about my son Drawtood…"

  "Ah, yes. The murderer." Mokleb raised a hand. "Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. But, yes, Drawtood poses a problem. He killed two of your other children."

  Afsan’s voice was small. "Yes."

  "But consider, good Afsan, exactly how he committed the, ah, the crimes."

  "He approached his siblings," said Afsan, "presumably with stealth, and slit their throats with a jagged mirror."

  "You’ve said that before, yes. Let’s consider that. He was able to come very, very close to his siblings apparently without triggering their territorial reflexes."

  "He snuck up on them," said Afsan.

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps their own senses of territoriality were so subdued as to allow him to approach them openly."

  Afsan said nothing for a long time, then, slowly, the word hissing out like escaping breath: "Perhaps."

  "And do you remember, Afsan, the mass dagamant that ensued while the bloodpriests were temporarily in disrepute?"

  "How could anyone forget that?" Afsan said, his voice heavy.

  "Indeed. But who quelled the madness? Who rode into town atop a shovelmouth, leading a stampede of prey beasts so that the violence could be turned away from killing Quintaglios and onto hunting food?"

  "Pal-Cadool."

  "Cadool, yes. A trained animal handler, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, one who has subsumed his personal sense of territoriality into defending your territory. His actions were dictated by the fact that he perceived you to be in danger. But who else aided in the quelling of the rage? Who else rode atop a shovelmouth, this time from the imperial stockyards?"

  Afsan’s head snapped up, his muzzle swinging toward Mokleb. "Why — Emperor Dybo."

  "Dybo! Indeed. And what do Dybo and your son Toroca have in common?"

  "I don’t see…"

  "Think about it! What caused the bloodpriests to be banished from the Packs?"

  "The revelation that there had been malfeasance involving the imperial creche," said Afsan. "All eight imperial egglings had been allowed to live."

  "Precisely! All eight egglings got to live. Just like Toroca, Dybo never faced the culling of the bloodpriest, never suffered the trauma of seeing his infant brothers and sisters swallowed whole."

  "Perhaps," said Afsan. "Perhaps." And then: "But I’ve seen Dybo on the verge of dagamant. Aboard the Dasheter, during your pilgrimage voyage, when he was attacked by Gampar."

  "But you told me it was you, not Dybo, who killed that sailor. Nothing you said indicated that Dybo would have, of his own volition, fought Gampar to the death. I believe he would not have, except if necessary in rational self-defense. But on his own, when it mattered most, during the mass dagamant of kiloday 7128, Dybo did not succumb to the madness. He was able to function rationally because
he had never been traumatized by witnessing the bloodpriest’s culling."

  Afsan looked thoughtful. "Incredible," he said at last. "So what you’re saying is…"

  "What I’m saying is that no future generation must go through the trauma of the culling of the bloodpriests. You said it yourself, Afsan. Parenting is the key: the relationship between ourselves and our children. We must find another way to control our population. Never again must children have their minds shocked that way. We can change this, this madness within ourselves. It’s not instinct that we have to overcome — not at all! Rather, it’s abuse of our children that we must put an end to."

  The Dasheter was finally close enough to Land that Keenir felt he could risk pulling away from the Other ships, confident that they’d follow the same course the rest of the way in. He unfurled the Dasheter’s two remaining sails, and his ship leapt ahead of the armada, letting the Quintaglios arrive back at Land five days before the Others would get there.

  As soon as the Dasheter had docked, Toroca and Keenir hurried to an audience with Emperor Dybo.

  Garios had immediately told Novato of Dybo’s summons for her to return to Capital City. Garios, of course, wasn’t about to let Novato go back alone to where Afsan was, so they boarded a fast ship and headed out together. But once back in the Capital, Novato had left Garios and gone to see Afsan anyway. When Garios next saw her, she was walking with the blind sage, who was accompanied by his large lizard.

  "Hello, Garios," said Novato as they drew nearer. "May we enter your territory?"

  Garios looked up, his long muzzle swinging from Novato to Afsan, then back again. "Hahat dan."

  "It’s a pleasure to be with you again, Garios," said Afsan.

  "Afsan," said Garios, somewhat curtly. Then, perhaps regretting his tone, he added, "I cast a shadow in your presence."

  "And I in yours," said Afsan.

  There was a protracted silence.

  "I’ve made my choice," said Novato.

  Garios’s voice betrayed his hope. "Yes?"

  Novato’s tone was soft. "I’m sorry, Garios, but it has to be Afsan again."

  Garios’s tail swished. "I see."

  "I know you were hoping otherwise," said Novato. "Please understand, I never wanted to hurt you."

  "No," said Garios. "No, of course not."

  Afsan’s toeclaws were churning the soil. "However," he said, "it would be a loss to our species to not have more offspring from one so gifted as you."

  "That’s kind of you to say," said Garios, his tone neutral.

  "Will you walk with us?" said Afsan. "There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Someone I’ve, ah, grown quite close to myself."

  "Who is it?"

  "Her name is Mokleb," said Afsan. "Nav-Mokleb."

  "Oh?" A pause. "May I be so bold to ask how old she is?"

  Afsan shrugged. "I really don’t know. I’ve never seen her."

  "Oh. I thought perhaps you were getting at … Never mind."

  "But I think you will find her quite, ah, open to new acquaintances," said Afsan. "I’ve had a certain amount of trouble resisting her myself. Come along, Garios. She really is a fascinating person."

  Despite territoriality, Quintaglios in Capital City favored apartment blocks over individual dwellings because they withstood landquakes better and were easier to repair. Novato had been pleased to find her own apartment just as she’d left it when she’d departed the Capital for the Fra’toolar dig; of course, she’d taken all the usual precautions, such as moving breakables off shelves and placing them on the floor before departing on her long trip.

  But all those objects had now been put back up on the shelves, leaving a wide open expanse of floor — an expanse of floor that was just right for what was about to come. She and Afsan lay together on it. The windows were closed, letting Novato’s pheromones build up in the room. They lay there, five paces been them, talking about things that were important to them, about experiences they’d shared together, joys they’d known, and some sorrows, too, talking softly, warmly, intimately, as Novato’s Toeromones wafted over them.

  They talked for daytenths on end, teeth clicking freely at fondly remembered times they’d spent together. Finally, intoxicated by the pheromones, his dewlap puffing, Afsan pushed off the floor and, despite his blindness, moved unerringly toward Novato. He placed his hand on her shoulder, touching her, feeling the warmth of her skin. His claws remained sheathed; so did hers. He stroked her shoulder lightly, back and forth, feeling the appealing roughness of her hide. Novato moaned softly.

  And, at last, more than twenty kilodays after the first time, Afsan moved even closer to her still. The two of them savored every moment.

  The next morning, Afsan and Novato woke slowly, their tails overlapping, the euphoria of the night before still upon them. Afsan was expected back at what was now called the war room in the palace office building; final tests of his designs were to be conducted today. He could not touch Novato again, but there was a warmth in her voice that thrilled every part of him. He bade her good day, and called for Cork to lead him on his way. But as they were walking along, Afsan heard the sound of feet approaching. "Who’s there?" he called out.

  "Hello, Afsan. I’ve been looking all over for you."

  "Toroca!" Afsan’s voice was warm as he reigned Gork in. "Hahat dan, boy, hahat dan. It’s good to hear your voice again."

  "And yours, Afsan." Toroca, taking advantage of Afsan’s blindness, allowed himself the luxury of approaching within four paces of the older Quintaglio. Cork padded over to Toroca, tasting the air with a forked tongue.

  "This is a time for reunions," said Afsan. "Novato is back, too."

  "I haven’t seen her yet," said Toroca, "but I’m looking forward to it."

  "I take it the Dasheter is safely docked, then?" Afsan said, leaning back on his tail.

  "Yes, late last evening. I’ve spent most of the night briefing Dybo."

  "And did Dybo tell you what we’ve got planned?"

  "Planned — no, I did all the talking. We tried to summon you to join us, but you weren’t at either Rockscape or your apartment."

  Afsan looked away. "This message you sent by wingfinger — what news about that?"

  Toroca looked his father up and down. It was so very good to see him again. "The Dasheter had no trouble outrunning the Other ships, but they are indeed in hot pursuit. They will be here in four or five days, Keenir estimates."

  "We will be ready for them," said Afsan, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

  Toroca’s tail moved nervously. "That’s what I came to speak to you about."

  Afsan waited.

  "This whole thing, Afsan: it’s our fault. We were the aggressors."

  "So your missive indicated." Afsan scrunched his muzzle. "But there’s nothing to be done about that now."

  "I can’t agree with that," said Toroca. "I feel an obligation to try to prevent the coming battle."

  Afsan tilted his head. "Is that possible?"

  "I can interact with the Others, Afsan. My — my lack of territoriality, I guess … it lets me be with them. But so far, I’m the only one they’ve had direct contact with."

  "If I understand this correctly, you’re the only one they could have contact with."

  "I don’t think that’s completely true, Afsan. It’s not pheromones that trigger the violent response; when Keenir and I first encountered an Other, she was downwind of us. No, it’s a reaction to the appearance of the Others. The appearance doesn’t affect me, because of the way I am. And, good Afsan, you are blind: it could not affect you."

  Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he spoke. "Come over here, so you are downwind of me." Toroca obeyed. "There are not many people I can say such things to, but come closer. Come stand right by me."

  Toroca moved nearer. "Yes?"

  Afsan turned his muzzle to face his son, then lifted his eyelids.

  "My … God," said Toroca. "Are they — are they glass?"


  Afsan clicked his teeth lightly at the unexpected suggestion. "No. No, they’re real."

  "But eyes don’t regenerate, and … and, anyway, it’s been ages since you were blinded."

  "I had an accident while you were away. I was kicked in the head by a hornface. There was substantial tissue damage. Healer Dar-Mondark thinks that may have something to do with it."

  Toroca nodded. "Miraculous. I’m sorry; forgive me, Afsan. I should be jubilant for you. It’s just that I was sure that if you could talk to the Others, you could help me prevent a slaughter. With the world coming to an end, there are more important matters than fighting. But now that you can see again…"

  Afsan’s voice was soft. "I cannot see, Toroca."

  "But your eyes…"

  "Do not work."

  "That’s … that’s…"

  "The phrase ’that’s a kick in the head’ comes to mind," said Afsan gently. "Unfortunately, the particular kick I got seemed to do only half a job."

  "I assume there’s something wrong with the way they regenerated, no?" Toroca stared intently into Afsan’s dark orbs, as if trying to see their inner workings. "It has been such a long time, after all."

  "No. As far as Dar-Mondark can tell, they regenerated perfectly. The problem, he suspects, is in my mind."

  "Is there nothing that can be done?"

  "I am, ah, undergoing therapy. There’s a chance my sight will return."

  "How long has this therapy been going on?"

  "Forever, it seems."

  "What are the chances of the therapy being successful in the next five days?"

  "We’ve had, ah, a major breakthrough. But I still cannot see."

  "Then perhaps you will risk coming with me to try to meet with the Others."

  "What could I do?"

  "Your whole life has been devoted to championing reason over emotion. It is irrational for us to be at war. There is an old proverb: only a fool fights in a building that’s on fire. By working with the Others, we can perhaps save both our peoples. I have some vague ideas about how some of their technology could be adapted to spaceflight. But by wasting time on a conflict with them, none of us may get off this world. If they see that more Quintaglios than just myself want peace, perhaps we can convince them to turn back."