And then it charged, huge waves of water being sent up as it plowed into the surf, barreling out toward the barges…
More waves as the largest female crashed into the water as well…
And then the juvenile…
And then the other two females…
Great walls of water splashing everywhere, Cadool now thoroughly soaked on the beach…
Huge waves being kicked up, the water now touching the bottom of the bull male’s belly…
The three Other ships rocking back and forth wildly in the turbulence…
Two of them directly in the path of the large male, pounding his way along, his tail slapping the water, huge gouts shooting up behind it…
The females fanning out behind him, trying to avoid being splashed in his wake…
A wall of flesh now, five giants pounding through the water…
Ships rocking wildly…
Water up to the middle of the bull’s belly now, the juvenile swimming freely, its head and neck sticking up above the waves…
And then, the first of the Other ships capsizing as it was hit by the giant waves kicked up by the charging thunderbeasts…
A big weapon on the deck of the second Other ship swinging around and firing at the bull male, the ship rocking back and forth so badly that the metal ball went almost straight up, then came plummeting down just slightly to starboard of the vessel, the splash of its impact nothing compared to the roiling waves already buffeting the ship, but still enough to momentarily get the bull’s attention, its long neck swinging around to look at the ship and then, almost nonchalantly, tapping the ship—just tapping it—with its long tail, the vessel breaking open as though it had been made of paper…
And then the bull was upon the first barge, swinging his neck down to virtually suck the fronds and leaves and melons into his elongated gullet…
And moments later, two females arriving at the same barge, moving to the far side to get better access, their long bodies rotating through water that came up to their shoulders, their tails stretching out endlessly behind them. The third battleship was desperately trying to get away, moving as fast as the wind would propel it but not fast enough to avoid being slapped by one of the tails, the ship actually lifting clear of the waves, its keel briefly visible, and then smashing back down into the surf, and cracking in two like a dropped egg.
The juvenile and the third female made their way to the second barge, while Others tried to swim for shore, a shore now lined along its entire length with Quintaglio hunters, each one ten paces from the next, torsos tipped forward in fighting posture, just waiting for the enemy survivors to try to come onto dry land…
For the rest of the afternoon, the thunderbeasts feasted on choice greens and frolicked in the crashing surf, oblivious to the carnage on the beach.
*31*
Afsan was finally taken back to the imperial surgery, where Dar-Mondark tended to his wounds. There was no doubt that Afsan had internal injuries; in addition to his collapsed lung and spitting up blood, he had now passed bloody stool. The healer cleaned the wounds but didn’t risk digging after the metal pellet lodged in Afsan’s chest. Afsan slept for a time, and when he awoke, Nav-Mokleb was waiting to see him.
“How are you?” Mokleb asked.
Afsan, lying on his belly on a raised table, groaned. “Not well,” he said. “I don’t think the talking cure will help me get over this.”
Mokleb’s tail swished. “I’ve brought you a present,” she said.
“Oh?”
“The volumes of Saleed’s Treatise on the Planets. I’m returning them.”
“You earned those, Mokleb.”
“Aye, I did. But they mean much to you. And besides—”
“Besides, I might wish to bequeath the complete set to someone.”
Mokleb’s tail swished again. She changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking more about what we were discussing, and about why we react to the Others the way we do. I’ve developed an idea.” She leaned back on her tail. “By having the bloodpriests, generation after generation, select for strength and speed, we’ve turned ourselves into a race with, well, an exaggerated sense of masculinity.”
“Masculinity?” said Afsan.
“That’s a word we rarely use, of course,” said Mokleb. “The sexes are equal. Oh, females grow at a slightly slower rate than males do, but since Quintaglios grow throughout their lifetimes, that makes little difference. Jobs requiring strength and physical prowess can as easily be done by males as females. But in the animal world, we do often see differences between males and females. Take shovelmouths, for instance: the male is always much larger than the female, and has a much more ornate head crest. Or thunderbeasts: a bull male will control a harem of several smaller females. Or hornfaces: the length of the horns and the height of the neck shield are much greater in males. And in almost every kind of wingfinger, it’s the male who stakes out a territory, defending it against all other males, but allowing females to come and go as they please. But we Quintaglios are different. We’ve unwittingly bred for a tendency toward strength and aggression, and a by-product of that has been to minimize the differences between the two genders.”
“But surely having equality of the sexes is laudable?”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mokleb. “No question of it. After all, according to legend, females were formed from the fingers of one of God’s severed hands, and males from the fingers of the other. No reason one should be better than the other. But here’s the rub: equality doesn’t necessarily mean being the same. It’s possible to be different but equal. Yes, the male may be more ornate or more powerful in many cases, but the female controls mating, choosing the male, and also, of course, it is the female who brings new life into the world. Which is better? No one can say. Equal, but different.”
“All right,” said Afsan.
“But we’ve made ourselves, essentially, an all-the-same race, in attitudes and attributes. There’s little difference between a male and a female. And the traits we’ve accentuated through the culling are, in many ways, the worst and most antisocial traits of the male. And we’ve distilled those traits in both genders.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“And now, consider this: the Others are, well, less overtly masculine than we are. They’re physically smaller, they have less prominent jaws, and smaller teeth. They’re drably colored compared to us and they have only a weak sense of territoriality.”
“So you’re saying they’re more like females?”
“Ah, but if they were like our females, perhaps we’d have no problem facing them. But they aren’t; they don’t have the exaggerated masculinity of our females. And there’s something deep, something dark, within our spirits that can’t stand the sight of what we perceive as lesser males. We’ve exaggerated our own masculinity to the point where we’ve become a threat to anyone that doesn’t meet the same standards of robustness or aggression. I’ve seen plenty of Other corpses now. All the Others appear to be males; even female Others have folds of skin about the throat reminiscent of a dewlap sack.”
“Then there’s nothing inherently evil about the Others,” said Afsan.
“Nothing at all. The evil is within us. In fact, I’ll suggest that we know that on an instinctive level; that Toroca knew to hide his difference from his fellow Quintaglios because he knew how we might react to one we perceived as not as male as we expect.”
“We destroyed every one of the Other ships,” Afsan said. “I doubt they’ll dare send more. So what do we do? You tell me we are bred to hate the Others because we see them as lesser versions of ourselves, or—I don’t know—perhaps as something we fear becoming. But if we can’t help how we feel, what do we do? You know the old saying, you can’t change Quintaglio nature.”