“Surrender, lad? With those sticks that fire metal, they’d kill us all.”
“Perhaps,” said Toroca softly, “that would be for the best.”
Keenir looked at his young friend. “What in God’s name are you saying?”
“ ‘In God’s name,’ ” repeated Toroca. “That’s exactly right.” He was quiet for a moment, then: “Consider our history, Keenir. Life is not native to this world. Rather, it was transplanted here. Why was that? Well, certainly one possible interpretation is that we were in danger of being killed off wherever it was that we came from.”
Keenir couldn’t see where Toroca was going. “I suppose,” he said.
“And then what happens when we arrive here? At least one of the arks crashed into this world; that’s the blue ship we found buried in Fra’toolar.”
“Yes.”
“And since that time, what has happened? Why, our world is in the process of destroying itself, tearing itself apart.”
“So?”
“You don’t see it, do you? What happens when overcrowding occurs amongst our own kind.”
“Dagamant,” said Keenir. “The territorial frenzy.”
“Exactly. We lose all reason, all restraint, and simply kill and kill and kill until either everyone is dead or the survivors are too exhausted to continue fighting.”
“You paint it in an unfavorable light,” said Keenir meekly.
“And what has happened now that we’ve met other intelligent beings? Why, even when there is no overcrowding, our basest feelings come to the fore and we kill again—kill thinking beings with no more regard than we have for killing dumb animals for food.”
“Make your point.”
“Don’t you see, Keenir? We’re poison. As a race, we’re vicious. We kill our own kind, we kill others. And what’s happening? Why, God keeps trying to snuff us out! On our original home, wherever that was, we were apparently threatened with extinction. The arks that carried us here, rather than being blessed by God, were buffeted in their voyage, with at least one of them falling out of the sky before its cargo of lifeforms could be let loose. God had almost destroyed us once, on our original home world, but a few of our ancestors escaped. God almost destroyed them en route, but enough of them survived to give rise to us. And now God shakes the entire world and is about to crumble it into dust, all to prevent the further spread of the poison that we represent.”
“Toroca, I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people: don’t be silly. Even if what you say is true, our own people must be our first priority.”
“Even if, as in this case, we were the original aggressors? Remember, Var-Keenir, it was you who made the first kill.”
Keenir spread his arms. “I couldn’t help myself, Toroca. I was moved to madness.”
Toroca’s tail swished slowly back and forth. “Exactly.”
“Quickly, now,” said Mokleb. “Name the five original hunters.”
Afsan looked startled, then: “Lubal, Hoog, Katoon, Belbar, and, uh. Mekt.”
“Thank you. Now, on with our session…”
It was a typically overcast day in Fra’toolar, the sky gray rather than purple, the sun a vague smudge behind the clouds. Karshirl was sitting on a log on the beach, looking out at the waves lapping against the base of the blue pyramid.
Novato regarded her daughter from a distance. She was almost exactly one-half Novato’s age and soon would be coming into receptivity for the first time. Karshirl was a lot smaller than Novato, and she was proportioned differently, too. The difference proportions wasn’t a sign that they were unrelated, but rather had to do with the ways in which a Quintaglio body changes in order to support its ever-increasing bulk. Novato had much thicker legs than Karshirl, and whereas the younger female’s tail was a narrow isosceles triangle in cross section, Novato’s was stocky and equilateral. Novato remembered wistfully when her own appearance had been like that.
She closed the distance between them. “Hello, Karshirl.”
Karshirl rose to her feet. “Hello, Novato. Hahat dan.”
Novato was quiet for several beats, then asked, “How much do you know about me?”
Karshirl looked surprised by the question. “What everyone knows, I suppose. You invented the far-seer.”
“Yes, I did. But that’s not the only, ah, creation I’m responsible for.”
Karshirl kept her muzzle faced toward Novato, attentive.
“I’m Toroca’s mother, did you know that?”
“Yes,” said Karshirl. “I’m not much for gossip, but I suppose everybody’s heard the story of your eight children by Afsan.”
“Indeed. But, actually, I have nine children.”
“Oh? Was that clutch of unusual size?”
“No. The clutch with Afsan was normal. But I had a second clutch by someone else later on. I, ah, had two clutches in my youth.”
“Oh.” Karshirl clearly didn’t know what to say.
“And one individual lives from that second clutch.”
“So one would presume,” said Karshirl.
“How old are you, Karshirl?”
“Eighteen kilodays.”
“Do you know how old I am?”
“No.”
“Go ahead, guess. I’m not particularly vain.”
“Thirty-four?”
“Actually I’m thirty-six.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Thank you. You don’t see what I’m getting at, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
Novato drew a deep breath, then let it hiss out slowly. “You, Karshirl, are my ninth child.”
Karshirl’s inner eyelids blinked. “I am?”
“Yes.”
“Fancy that,” she said.
Novato waited for something more. Finally, when she couldn’t take it any longer, she said, “Is that all you’ve got to say?”
Karshirl was clearly trying to be polite. “Um, well, I guess if I take after you, I’ll age well.”
There was frustration in Novato’s tone: “I’m your mother,” she said.
“Yes, I guess that’s the term, isn’t it?” Karshirl was quiet for a time, then added again, “Fancy that.”
“Don’t you want to ask me questions?” said Novato.
“Well, as an engineer, I’ve long wondered where you got the inspiration for the far-seer.”
“Not that kind of question. Questions about myself. About you. About us.”
“Questions, ma’am? Nothing comes to mind.”
“I’m your mother,” Novato said again as if that said it all.
Karshirl’s tail swished expansively. “I guess it’s interesting to know. I’m sure some people idly wonder about who their parents were, but I never have myself.”
“Never?”
“Not really, no.”
Novato sighed, air whistling out between her pointed teeth. “I suppose I should have expected this. Before I left Pack Gelbo, I never knew who my mother was, either. Now that I’ve been gone for twenty kilodays, I wonder about it a lot. I try to recall the females who were eighteen, thirty-six, or fifty-four kilodays older than me, to see if any of them resemble me. But the memories are dim; I keep hoping for an excuse for a trip back to Gelbo. I’d like to see her, whoever she is.” She paused. “As I thought you might like to see me.”
“I see you often already, Novato. Forgive me—I’m not normally this dense, but I don’t seem to be getting the point of all this.”
“We’re a family,” said Novato.
“ ‘Family,’ ” repeated Karshirl. “And ‘mother.’ I’m sure you’re using these words correctly, although I’ve never heard them applied thus. Oh. I’ve heard of ‘The Family,’ of course—Dy-Dybo and his ancestors. And the term ‘creche mother’ is sometimes used. But the way you’re using them…”