Foreigner

  “SCIENCE FICTION FANS, TAKE NOTE OF THIS NAME: ROBERT J. SAWYER. He’s one of the brightest newcomers to the field, with a fresh and engaging storytelling style!”

  —Toronto Star

  Robert J. Sawyer made a world of intelligent dinosaurs come alive—in the unforgettable story of a saurian astronomer named Afsan…

  FAR-SEER

  “REFRESHINGLY ORIGINAL!”

  —Quill & Quire

  “SAWYER HAS RETURNED A SENSE OF WONDER TO SCIENCE FICTION.”

  —Tanya Huff, author of Blood Price

  “INVENTIVE AND ENGAGING!”

  —New York Newsday

  “AN ADVENTURE STORY, a commentary on the conflict between truth and established faith, and a fascinating exploration of an alien society.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “SAWYER’S DINOSAUR-RACE MIRRORS HUMANITY.”

  —North York Mirror (Canada)

  “CONSTANTLY INTRIGUING!”

  —The Ottawa Citizen

  “FASCINATING…Sawyer’s understanding of both our reptilian predecessors and of astronomy is considerable…Far-Seer entertains as a fantasy about an alien culture and as an exercise in world-building.”

  —Books in Canada

  “TRULY A GREAT PIECE OF FANTASY SF…The author, at heart a paleontologist, has never outgrown his early love for dinosaurs. It is catching!”

  —Kliatt

  “ONE OF THE YEAR’S OUTSTANDING SF BOOKS!”

  —Toronto Star

  Then, Robert J Sawyer returned to this fascinating world—as Afsan’s son, a geologist, discovers a mysterious artifact that could reveal the saurians’ true origins…

  FOSSIL HUNTER

  “THOUGHTFUL AND COMPELLING SF ADVENTURE!”

  —Library Journal

  “BRILLIANT…Sawyer blends hard science with effective storytelling…tight and fast-paced…Fossil Hunter, like Far-Seer, is not just wonderful SF, it’s wonderful fiction.”

  —Quill & Quire

  “EVERY BIT AS GOOD AS ITS EXCELLENT PREDECESSOR, this makes me more anxious than ever to see the final volume!”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “A WRITER TO WATCH…Robert Sawyer may be Canada’s answer to Isaac Asimov!”

  —Andrew Weiner, author of Station Gehenna

  “IF ROBERT J. SAWYER WERE A CORPORATION, I WOULD BUY STOCK IN HIM.”

  —Spider Robinson

  “A FASCINATION WITH DINOSAURS and an ability to write has been a winning combination for Robert J. Sawyer!”

  —Thornhill Liberal (Canada)

  “FANTASTIC-caused me to miss my stop for the first time in many years of subway reading.”

  —Now

  “A VERY INTERESTING PIECE OF WORK. Quite satisfying on its own…yet bridges between the very enticing first entry in the series and Sawyer’s goal, whatever that might be. I’m looking forward to finding out.”

  —Analog

  “SAWYER’S NARRATIVE BRILLIANCE is such that he can tackle serious topics and still deliver an entrancing, even charming story. Although obviously aimed at the SF crowd, it deserves a much wider readership.”

  —Books in Canada

  “A COMPLETELY SUCCESSFUL NOVEL that should be read by science fiction fans, by those who no longer read science fiction, and by those who never have.”

  —Quill & Quire

  Now, Robert J. Sawyer presents the third volume of this brilliantly original saga—a strange, timeless world of nature’s greatest mysteries…

  FOREIGNER

  Science Fiction Novels by Robert J. Sawyer

  GOLDEN FLEECE

  FAR-SEER

  FOSSIL HUNTER

  FOREIGNER

  END OF AN ERA (Coming in November)

  This book is an Ace original edition,

  and has never been previously published.

  FOREIGNER

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace edition / March 1994

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1994 by Robert J. Sawyer.

  Cover art by Bob Eggleton.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison A venue, New York, NY 10016.

  ISBN: 0-441-00017-7

  ACE®

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

  ACE and the “A” design

  are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Quentin and Gin Peterson,

  with love and thanks

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book got off the ground with the help of my wife, Carolyn Clink; my brother-in-law, David Livingstone Clink; my brother, Alan B. Sawyer; physicist Dr. Ariel Reich; programmer Ted Bleaney; my agent, Richard Curtis; my editor, Susan Allison (and my former editor, Peter Heck, who commissioned this novel before he left Ace); and fellow SF writers Cory Doctorow, Gregory Feeley, Terence M. Green, Edo van Belkom, and Andrew Weiner.

  Contents

  Map

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Major Characters

  Capital City

  Afsan (Sal-Afsan)

  advisor to Dy-Dybo

  Cadool (Pal-Cadool)

  aide to Afsan

  Dybo (Dy-Dybo)

  Emperor

  Edklark (Det-Edklark)

  Master of the Faith

  Mokleb (Nav-Mokleb)

  psychoanalyst

  Mondark (Dar-Mondark)

  palace healer

  Osfik (Var-Osfik)

  Arbiter of the Sequence

  Pettit

  Afsan’s apprentice

  Geological Survey of Land

  Babnol (Wab-Babnol)

  team member

  Biltog (Mar-Biltog)

  mate aboard the Dasheter

  Keenir (Var-Keenir)

  captain of the Dasheter

  Toroca (Kee-Toroca)

  leader, Afsan’s son

  Exodus Project

  Delplas (Bar-Delplas)

  project staff member

  Garios (Den-Garios)

  project staff member

  Karshirl (Bos-Karshirl)

  engineer

  Novato (Wab-Novato)

  leader, inventor of the far-seer

  Others

  Captain

  sailor

  Jawn

  teacher

  Morb

  security chief

  Taksan

  eggling

  Prologue

  Historically, there have been three great blows to the Quintaglio ego.

  First, Afsan delivered the cosmological blow by taking God out of our skies and moving us from the center of the universe to one of its countless backwaters.

  Then, Toroca dealt us the biological blow, showing that we were not divinely created from the hands of God but rather had evolved through natural processes from other animals.

  And, finally, Mokleb administered the psychological blow, proving that we were not rational beings acting on lofty principles but are in fact driven by the dark forces that control our
subconscious minds.

  — Briz-Tolharb, Curator

  Museum of Quintaglio Civilization

  Chapter 1

  Afsan couldn’t see the sun, but he felt its noontime heat beating down. With his left hand he held the harness attached to Gork, his large monitor lizard. They were moving over paving stones, Afsan’s toeclaws making heavy clicks against them, Cork’s footfalls echoing that sound with a softer ticking. Afsan heard metal-rimmed wheels rolling over the roadway, approaching from the right.

  Afsan had been blind for twenty kilodays. Det-Yenalb, the Master of the Faith, had pierced Afsan’s eyeballs with a ceremonial obsidian dagger. The priest had rotated the blade in each socket, gouging out the empty sacks. Afsan didn’t like thinking about that long-ago day. He’d been convicted of heresy, and the blinding had been performed in Capital City’s Central Square in front of over a hundred people, a mob packed with as little as three paces between each of its members.

  The city had changed since then. The landquake of kiloday 7110 had destroyed many roads and buildings, and the replacements were often different from the originals. The growth and redevelopment of the city had left their marks, too. Still, Afsan always knew where he was in relation to the Central Square. Even now, having to walk through it made him anxious. But today’s journey would take him nowhere near—

  Roots!

  Suddenly Afsan felt his middle toeclaw catch on something—a loose paving stone?—and he found himself pitching forward, his tail lifting off the ground.

  Gork let out a loud hiss as Afsan, desperately trying to right himself, yanked hard on the lizard’s harness.

  From ahead, a shout: “Watch out!”

  Another voice, a different passerby: “He’s going to be crushed!”

  A loud roar—a hornface?—dead ahead.

  Afsan’s chest scraped across the pavement.

  The sound of cracking leather.

  The hornface again.

  A snap from his shoulder.

  A jab of pain.

  His muzzle smashing into the ground.

  Blood in his mouth.

  Two curving teeth knocked loose.

  And then, an explosion within his head as something heavy kicked into it.

  His head whipped sideways. His neck felt like it was going to snap.

  Crunching sounds.

  More pain.

  Indescribable pain.

  A scream from the roadside.

  More teeth knocked out.

  Afsan was unable to breathe through one nostril. He felt as if that whole side of his upper muzzle had been crushed.

  Running feet.

  Afsan let out a moan.

  A stranger’s voice: “Are you all right?”

  Afsan tried to lift his head. Agony. His shoulder blade was a knife, slicing into his neck. His head was slick with blood.

  The high-pitched voice of a youngster: “It’s Sal-Afsan!”

  Another voice. “By the Face of God, it is.”

  And a third voice: “Oh, my God. His head—Sal-Afsan, are you all right?”

  More running sounds, toeclaws sparking against paving stones.

  Agony.

  “You ran right over him!”

  “He stumbled in front of my chariot. I tried to stop.”

  Chariot. The wheels he’d heard. The hornface must have been drawing it. The kick to his head—a hornface’s forefoot. Afsan tried to speak, but couldn’t. He felt blood coursing out of him.

  “The left side of his face is smashed,” said the youngster. “And look—there’s something funny about his shoulder.”

  Another voice. “Dislocated, I’m sure.”

  “Is he dead?” called a new voice.

  “No. Not yet, anyway. Look at his skull!”

  Afsan tried to speak again, but all he managed was a low hiss.

  “Someone get a healer!”

  “No, it would take too long to fetch a doctor; we’ve got to take him to one.”

  “The palace surgery isn’t far,” said one of the voices. “Surely Sal-Afsan would be a patient of the imperial healer, what’s his name…”

  “Mondark,” said another voice. “Dar-Mondark.”

  “Take him in your chariot,” shouted a voice.

  “Someone will have to help me,” said the charioteer. “He’s too heavy for me to lift on my own.”

  Silence, except for Afsan’s labored breathing and, nearby, Cork’s confused hissing.

  “For God’s sake, people, someone help me! I can’t do this alone.”

  An incredulous voice. “To touch another…”

  “He’ll die if he doesn’t get medical help. Come on.”

  A new voice, from farther away. “Make room for me to pass. I’m just back from a hunt. I suspect I can touch him without difficulty.”

  Shuffling feet. Afsan moaned again.

  The charioteer’s voice now, close to his earhole: “We’re going to touch you, Sal-Afsan. Try not to react.”

  Even in agony, even with a broken skull and dislocated shoulder, instinct still reigned. Afsan flinched as hands touched him. Fingerclaws popped from their sheaths.

  “Careful of his shoulder—”

  Afsan howled in pain.

  “Sorry. He’s pretty heavy.”

  Afsan felt his head being pulled out of the thickening puddle of blood. He was lifted up and placed facedown in the back of the chariot.

  “What about his lizard?” said the charioteer.

  “I’ll take him,” said the youngster who had first identified Afsan. “I know where the palace surgery is.”

  The charioteer shouted, “Latark!” His hornface began to gallop along the road, Afsan’s head bouncing up and down, the sound of metal wheels over the stones drowning out his moans.

  After an eternity, the chariot arrived outside Dar-Mondark’s surgery, a typical adobe building just south of the palace. Afsan could hear the charioteer disembark and the sound of his fingerclaws clicking against the signaling plate set into the doorjamb. The door swung open on squeaky hinges, and Afsan heard Mondark’s voice. “Yes?”

  “I’m Gar-Reestee,” said the charioteer. “I’ve got Sal-Afsan with me. He’s hurt.”

  Afsan heard Mondark’s heavy footfalls as the healer hurried to the chariot. “God,” he said. “How did this happen?”

  “He tripped and fell into the roadway. My hornface kicked him in the head before I could stop my chariot.”

  “Those are massive wounds.” Mondark leaned closer, his voice reassuring. “Afsan, you’re going to be all right.”

  The charioteer’s voice, incredulous: “Healer, your muzzle—”

  “Shush,” said Mondark. “Help me bring him inside. Afsan, we’re going to pick you up.”

  Once again, Afsan was carried. He felt cold in the side of his head. After several moments, he was placed face down on a marble tabletop. Mondark had treated Afsan kilodays ago on a similar table after Afsan had plummeted to the ground from the top of a thunderbeast’s neck. The surgery chamber, Afsan knew, was heated by a cast-iron stove burning coal. He also knew that the roof above the table was made largely of glass, letting in outside light, illuminating the patient.

  “Thank you, Gar-Reestee, for bringing Afsan in,” said Mondark. “I will do everything I can for him, but you must leave. The physical contact for treating his injuries is something you shouldn’t see.”

  The charioteer’s voice was full of sorrow. “Good Sal-Afsan, I’m terribly sorry. It was an accident.”

  Afsan tried to nod, but daggers of pain stabbed through his muzzle.

  The charioteer left. Mondark went to work.

  “Land ho!”

  Captain Var-Keenir stopped pacing the deck of the sailing ship Dasheter and tipped his muzzle up to the lookout bucket, high atop the foremast. Old Biltog was up there, his red leather cap and the green skin of his head and shoulders stark against the purple sky. Keenir’s tail swished in sadness. He’d seen it happen before on long voyages, and lookout off
icers, who spent inordinate amounts of time in the sun, were particularly susceptible to it. Biltog was hallucinating. Why, Land—the single known continent—was half a world away.

  “Land ho!” called Biltog again, his green arm extended toward the northeast. The red sail attached to the foremast snapped in the wind. Two Quintaglios moved to the starboard side of the vessel to see what Biltog was pointing at.

  Keenir looked up again. The sun, brilliant and white, was climbing in front of them. Behind, covering half the sky between zenith and rear horizon, was the Face of God, its leading edge illuminated, the rest of its vast bulk in shadow. Also visible were three moons, wan shapes in the sun’s glare. But along the northeastern horizon there was nothing but waves touching sky.

  Near Keenir was a ramp leading below. Kee-Toroca, a young Quintaglio male, came up it. He moved closer to Keenir than Keenir was comfortable with and said, “Did I hear a shout of ‘land ho’?”

  Keenir had known the young savant all his life; indeed, Toroca had taken his praenomen syllable in honor of him. “You’ve sharp hearing indeed, to have heard that below deck,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Yes, Biltog shouted it, but, well, I think he’s had too much sun. There can’t be any land out here.”

  “Ah, but undiscovered land is exactly what we’re looking for.”

  Keenir clicked his teeth. “Aye, the final stage of the Geological Survey. But I don’t expect to find any, and doubt very much we have now.”

  Toroca was carrying the brass far-seer his mother, Novato, had given to his father, Afsan, the day after he had been conceived. It glinted in the fierce sun, its green patina counterpointed by purple reflections of the sky above. Toroca scanned the horizon once with his unaided eye.

  Nothing.

  Or was there something?

  He brought the far-seer to his face and slid the tube’s components apart until the horizon was in focus. There was a slight brown line dividing the waves and the sky.

  Keenir could see it, too, now. Biltog’s greater height had let him spot the land sooner than those on deck.