Foreigner qa-3, Page 2

  Afsan had spent the night of the accident, and the one that followed, lying on Mondark’s surgical table, slowly regaining strength. Finally, when he was well enough to move, Afsan’s assistant, the lanky Pal-Cadool, had come to take him home.

  That had been twenty days ago. Mondark had insisted that Afsan return every ten days so that his injuries could be checked.

  "How do you feel today?" asked the healer.

  "All right, I suppose," said Afsan, "although the new skin itches, and the side of my head is still tender to the touch."

  "That’s to be expected. Frankly, you’re doing much better than I’d have thought. I didn’t think you were going to make it."

  Afsan clicked his jaws together. The gaps in his sawtooth dentition where teeth had been knocked out had begun to fill in with pointed buds. "No one is more pleased than me that your diagnosis was in error. How do I look?"

  Mondark’s turn to click his teeth. "Well, nothing I could do would make you pretty, Afsan. If you want miracles, you’ll have to see a priest. But on the whole, you look remarkably well. Your scars are bright yellow, but the scabbing has diminished. Your back is still bruised around your shoulder blade, but that will clear up in time. Does it still give you pain?"

  "Yes. But it’s getting better."

  "Good. And you’ve been following my advice about no heavy lifting?"

  "Right," said Afsan. "I’ve been skipping my usual shift on the docks."

  "Good. Now, let me remove your stitches. I’m going to touch your face."

  Mondark used a tiny pair of scissors to gently lift and cut each of the gut strings. Then, using his claws as pincers, he pulled the little threads out. Despite his efforts at stoicism, Afsan winced slightly as each one came free.

  After removing the stitches on Afsan’s muzzle, the healer repeated the process for the ones on the side of his head. Eventually he stopped, but for some reason he didn’t move away from Afsan’s face. After a few moments, Mondark said, "How are your eyes?"

  Afsan’s voice was cold. "Your repartee is slipping, Doctor. That’s not very funny."

  "I mean, there’s something different about your eyelids. It’s almost as if… Afsan, forgive me, but can you open your eyelids?"

  "I never do that. It hurts to have the sockets exposed."

  "I know, but … forgive me, I’d like to open them myself. I’m going to touch your face."

  Afsan flinched at the sensation of Mondark’s fingers on the side of his head. He felt a strange coldness as his left eyelid was peeled open.

  The healer sucked in his breath. "By the eggshells of the hunters…"

  "What? What is it?"

  "Afsan, can you see me?"

  "What?"

  "Can you see me?"

  "Doctor, what are you talking about?"

  Without any warning, Mondark’s fingers were on Afsan’s other eyelid, prying it open. "God," he said.

  With Afsan’s green lids peeled back, Mondark could see into his eye sockets. From the bottom of each pink fleshy well, a wet all-black sphere, about half the size of a normal Quintaglio eye, stared out at him.

  Mondark had Afsan force his eyelids open while he brought a candle close to Afsan’s face. Quintaglio pupils were hard to discern against the all-black sclera, and light played across the wet surface making it all the more difficult to see, but there could be no doubt: Afsan’s pupils were contracting in response to the candlelight.

  "Eyes don’t regenerate," Afsan said, incredulous. "They’re like internal organs. Damage to them is permanent."

  Mondark moved across the room; too much closeness was bad for both of them. "Usually, that’s true. But very, very rarely, an organ, even an eye, will grow back. It usually only happens to young children, but it’s not unheard-of in adults."

  "But it was twenty kilodays ago that I was blinded. Why would my eyes be coming back now?"

  "No doubt your recent head wound has something to do with it. You had to regenerate a lot of bone, a lot of flesh, a lot of muscle. Somehow your body went on to regenerate your eyes, too. Of course, they’re not fully back yet; they’re only about half normal size."

  Afsan shook his head. "That’s incredible." And then, after a moment, he spoke again, his voice tremulous, as if he feared the answer. "So when the eyes have finished regenerating, will I be able to see again?"

  Mondark was quiet for a time. "I don’t know. Your eyes have already regenerated in all functional aspects. Oh, they’re still too small; presumably they’ll continue to grow to fill the sockets. But the lenses are clear, the pupils are responsive, and both eyes track left and right in unison. Whether the eyes will actually work for vision, I don’t know." Another pause. "You say you can’t see anything now?"

  "That’s right."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Nothing."

  "Not even when I brought that candle flame close a moment ago?"

  "No, not a thing. It’s pitch black, just like it’s been since … since Yenalb did this to me."

  "Well, come back in ten days. And come immediately if you get any hint of vision — a flash of light, a blurry image, anything."

  "I will, Mondark." Afsan faced him from across the room, his eyelids open, the half-size black spheres appearing to look at him from the bottoms of their sockets.

  *2*

  The Dasheter continued to sail in. It was clear that they were approaching a small group of islands. Discounting the icy polar caps, until moments ago Land and its attendant archipelagos had been the only known dry ground in the world.

  But now there was someplace else: a new land with possibly untold riches. Not gold or diamonds; those weren’t the types of riches Toroca was looking for. No, his Geological Survey sought valuables of another kind: things that could be used to aid in the effort to get the Quintaglio people off their doomed world.

  The chain of islands — Toroca could see six discrete bodies now — seemed to be volcanic. Each was conical, a ragged mountain rising out of the water. Lush vegetation covered the flat lands around the bases of the volcanoes and much of the volcanic cones, as well.

  "Drop anchor!" shouted Captain Keenir. Four members of his crew struggled with the big wheel that paid out the chain. They put their backs into it, channeling the territorial anger such close proximity would normally engender. They were still two thousand paces from the nearest island, but Keenir wouldn’t risk bringing the Dasheter closer until he was sure the waters were free of obstructions.

  Two crewmembers were working on the foresail booms, untying the huge red sheets. The snapping of the sails had been a constant background; its end made for a curious reverse-deafness. Toroca cocked his head and listened to the quieter sounds of the anchor chain uncoiling, of waves slapping against the wooden hull, and — was there something else on the wind? Briefly there, but now gone? A rhythmic pounding, like hunting drums? No, of course not. Doubtless it had just been Toroca’s own heartbeat thundering in his earholes as his senses adjusted to the change in sound quality.

  "That’s as far as it’ll go!" shouted a voice. Toroca turned to see a mate, her red leather cap bright in the white sunlight, indicating the wooden wheel that held the anchor chain. Toroca thought briefly that the bright red caps worn by Keenir’s crew suggested inflated dewlaps, like those of males in full mating display. He shook his head; he’d been on board the ship much too long.

  Keenir made a hand signal indicating he understood that the anchor had failed to find bottom. It mattered little: with the sails down, the Dasheter wasn’t going anywhere. "Shore boats!" shouted the captain in his gravelly voice. Sailors began pulling back the leather sheets that covered the Dasheter’s four auxiliary craft.

  Keenir turned to Toroca. "I hope there’s game on those islands," he said, claws dancing in and out of their sheaths. "I’m sick of fish and salted thunderbeast."

  Keenir knew of Toroca’s … condition was perhaps the best word for it. Toroca lacked the native sense of territoriality and the urge to hunt. Oh, h
e ate meat, and enjoyed the taste of it, but he preferred, whenever possible, not to have to take part in the killing. Still, to stand on solid ground; to drag toeclaws through dirt; to feel something other than splintery wood beneath his tail — it would be wonderful to get off the Dasheter, even for a short time.

  Only four individuals would go ashore on the first excursion; it wasn’t wise to pack Quintaglios tightly together. Keenir and Toroca clambered into one shore boat, and two other surveyors, the females Babnol and Spalton, got into a second. Sailors on the Dasheter worked the winches that lowered the boats into the water.

  The nearest island was perhaps six hundred kilopaces in diameter. It had two adjacent beaches, separated by a finger of jungle that came to the water’s edge. Keenir and Toroca would land on the northern beach; Babnol and Spalton would take the southern one.

  Quintaglios grew throughout their lives, so Toroca naturally wasn’t as big or strong as Keenir. Their boat was taking a decidedly curving course toward the island. Keenir clicked his teeth and switched to paddling on the same side as Toroca, causing the boat to arc in the opposite direction.

  Finally, the two of them made it to shore. At first glance, Toroca was disappointed. The vegetation that rose up like a wall behind the sandy beach seemed familiar. Why, that was a stand of keetaja trees over there, and the ubiquitous orange flowers were common starweed. Toroca had formulated his theory of evolution while visiting the south pole, having seen all the startling forms inhabiting the ice pack that had developed from the wingfinger body plan, and he’d hoped to find similarly bizarre life here. But this could have been one of the resort beaches along the north shore of Chu’toolar province back in Land.

  They began walking toward the jungle, looking for a break that might indicate a path trampled by animals. Toroca glanced back, saw his and the captain’s footprints and the marks made by their tails, saw, too, far out in the water, the twin diamond-shaped hulls of the Dasheter. Then he turned, and…

  Something was very wrong. Keenir’s claws were extended. His body had tipped forward from the waist; his torso was bobbing up and down, up and down…

  Toroca looked in the direction Keenir’s muzzle was pointing and felt, just for an instant, his own claws leap out in surprise.

  Up ahead, someone — something — had stepped out of the jungle and was staring at them.

  No matter how much time she spent inside the ark, it never ceased to make Novato uneasy. The thing was huge, bigger than any structure Quintaglios had ever built. And it was ancient: assuming it was the same age as the Bookmark layer, the ark was millions of kilodays old.

  But most chilling of all was the alienness of the ark. In a thousand ways it screamed that its makers had not been Quintaglios: the straight corridors; the rooms with multiple beds that made no concession to territoriality; the tools designed for six-fingered hands; the remnants of fabric on the floors; the bowl-shaped chairs with no notch for a tail.

  And strangest of all were the ark crewmembers themselves, with five knoblike eyes; long, flexible trunks; three pairs of legs — the front pair for locomotion, the middle and hind pairs successively smaller and used for God only knew what.

  Today, Novato was cataloging the contents of storage locker 412. The ark-makers had been fanatical about numbering things: doorways, beds, lockers — everything had a number on it. Their system of counting was the only part of their written language that been deciphered. They used six numerals, plus a horizontal line to represent zero.

  Novato set her lamp on the slightly canted floor. She tried to concentrate on her task, but, as usual, found her mind wandering and her heart pounding. Except for the pool of light made by the lamp, the vastness around her was blacker than Quintaglio eyes. Her claws hung half out of their sheaths, ready in case an alien trunk should reach out of the darkness, seizing her by the neck.

  Novato was particularly edgy today. She’d been hunting earlier and things had not gone well. Although she’d managed to fell a small shovelmouth, her kill had been stolen by a pack of terrorclaws. Novato had escaped by climbing a tree but she was still rattled by the whole affair. Here, in the darkness, deep within the alien ship, her imagination was running rampant.

  Light from the lamp flame seemed to lap at the walls. Quavering specters danced behind her. Novato tried to shut it all out, to concentrate on her work. She’d been here a thousand times, she reminded herself. A thousand times. There were no ghosts here. Nothing to fear.

  Those terrorclaws had rattled her…

  Be calm. There was no reason to be afraid.

  What was that?

  A sound?

  Ridiculous.

  But there it was again.

  Someone calling her name, perhaps?

  Novato’s tail swished as she turned around…

  Her heart skipped a beat…

  God, no!

  But it was too late.

  She knocked over her lamp, the glass housing shattering. Thunderbeast oil spilled everywhere. Flames shot up as the puddle ignited. Novato backed away from the inferno.

  A voice.

  Just at the limit of perception, a voice.

  Afsan craned his neck, trying to hear. Around him all was darkness, but from somewhere in that abyss came the voice.

  The tone was doleful, plaintive, and the words were elusive. Afsan thought he could catch the occasional pronoun — "I," "you," "we" — but that was all. The rest was a lilting blur, rising and falling like heavy sighs.

  Afsan ran toward the voice, ran the way he had ages ago when he could see. The sound of his feet slapping the ground echoed behind him, drowning out the very words he was desperate to hear. He stopped, but his heart was pounding deafeningly now. Cupping a hand behind each earhole, he tried to isolate the mournful voice. Earlier it had been to the left. Now, maddeningly, it seemed to be behind him. He ran again, back the way he’d come.

  More snatches of speech: "I." "You." "We." The rest was a smudge of sound, unintelligible, lost on the wind.

  Afsan stopped running again, cocked his head, strained to listen. It seemed now that the dim voice was up ahead. He hurried in that direction but already it was clear that the source was moving yet again. "Wait!" cried Afsan as the source of the sound shifted again. "Wait for me!"

  He ran until he could run no more. The voice was still too far away for him to catch anything more than the odd isolated word.

  "I…"

  From behind him now. Afsan pivoted and ran to the rear.

  "You…"

  The left! He hurried in that direction.

  "We…"

  The right.

  Again and again, forever.

  The creature staring out at Toroca and Captain Keenir looked something like a Quintaglio. All the same parts were there: two arms ending in five-fingered hands; two legs ending in feet with three toeclaws and a heel spur; a tail, triangular in cross section, hanging off the back; a thick, dexterous neck with, in males, as this one apparently was, the folds of an uninflated dewlap suspended from the front; a head looking round in full view but front-heavy with a drawn-out muzzle in profile; two nostrils at the tip of the muzzle; small earholes; forward-facing eyes.

  And yet, at the same time, the — the other didn’t look like a Quintaglio at all. The leathery hides of Quintaglios are predominantly green, shaded with yellow and brown, and, in the very old, mottled with black. But this being was almost completely yellow, with gray highlights. And its eyes, rather than being the black of Quintaglio orbs, were pale yellow with gold irises and clearly visible pupils. The earholes, instead of being the kidney-shaped openings most Quintaglios had, were vertical slits. And the shape of the muzzle, well … it was pinched, caved in on either side, coming to a narrower and sharper point than normal for a Quintaglio. The head also seemed big for the body, and the body was thin and puny by Quintaglio standards. The net effect of all these differences in color and shape and proportion was to make the other look wrong, malformed.

  Quintaglios
usually sported a decorative sash, and possibly a hat or tool belt. This creature was completely naked save for a copper necklace, two bracelets on one arm and three on the other, and a small band around his right ankle.

  The Other just stood there, head tilted slightly, hands hanging free, claws retracted. But Keenir, Captain Var-Keenir of the good ship Dasheter, continued to bob in territorial display.

  Toroca thought the sailor’s reaction a bizarre one and wondered fleetingly if the captain was only feigning the display as a form of greeting, but, no, the extended claws and the jaws hanging loosely open showing curving, serrated teeth made clear that this was a true instinctive display.

  The Other was thirty paces away, too distant to constitute an encroachment on Keenir’s territory, and he was giving no sign of replying to Keenir’s bobbing. Surely the combination of a lack of response and the distance between them would snap Keenir out of it…

  Not a chance. Keenir burst into action, his body tipped over so that his torso was held horizontally, parallel to the sands of the beach, his tail flying out behind him.

  The Other took a few beats to react… a few fatal beats. By the time he had turned around, ready to retreat into the vegetation, Keenir was almost upon him. The captain crouched low, then leapt, hurtling through the air. He landed on the Other’s narrow yellow back, slamming him into the sands.

  The captain was more than twice the Other’s size. Keenir arched his own neck, preparing for a killing bite, but the Other managed to roll the two of them onto their sides then jab his elbow into the underside of Keenir’s muzzle. Quintaglio lower jawbones aren’t fused at the front; they can split to facilitate the bolting of meat. By bringing his elbow in underneath Keenir’s jaw, the Other forced the two halves to separate — excruciating when not done under voluntary control. Keenir yelped and scrambled for his feet. The Other clawed sand, also trying to regain his footing.