“But why did you do this with the imperial children? Why not with the general population?”
Maliden winced; he was in great pain. “If it had worked, perhaps we would have. But remember, although I am head bloodpriest, I have my opponents, even within my order. It would have been difficult to keep such a change from becoming public. This was easier. Although a closely guarded secret, all eight imperial children always got to live ever since the days of Larsk; I made no change in that. I could not be sure of the results of my—my experiment, to use one of your words—if I’d done it differently.”
“A breeding experiment.”
“Yes.”
“And it was a success.”
“In most ways,” said Maliden, his voice now much fainter than when he’d begun speaking. “Dybo is the best ruler we’ve ever had; you know that to be true. Without an equitable person such as him on the throne slab, you’d never have gotten your exodus project off the ground, so to speak. Indeed, you’d be dead—long since executed.” He paused.
Afsan, uncomfortable in the prolonged crouch, rose to his feet and rocked back on his tail. “Incredible.”
“Every word is true, Afsan.” Maliden’s attenuated voice was all but lost in the room.
“Incredible,” Afsan said again.
“You see the priesthood as your enemy; as the opponent of science. I can understand that, I suppose, for it was a priest, Det-Yenalb, who put a knife point into each of your eyes. But that was Yenalb alone, and even he thought what he was doing was for the good of the people.”
Afsan nodded slowly. “I know that.”
“And I know that what you are doing is also for the good of the people,” said Maliden.
“Thank you.”
“But, now, please accept that what I did was likewise for the common good.”
Afsan was quiet for a time. “I accept it.”
Maliden let his breath out. It took a long time, as though his lungs were so congested that the air was stymied in its attempts to escape. “I’m coming to an interesting moment, Afsan,” Maliden said at last. “I’ve been a priest for a long time. I’ve told others what to believe about God, about life after death. Soon, I’ll find out for myself if I’ve been right.”
Afsan nodded. “It’s something we all wonder about.”
“But I’m supposed to know. And, here, when it counts most of all, I find that I don’t. I really, down deep, don’t know that’s about to happen to me.”
“I don’t know, either, Maliden.” A pause. “Are you afraid?”
A voice almost nonexistent: “Yes.”
“Would you like me to stay with you?”
“It is much to ask.”
“I was with my master, Saleed, when he passed on. I was with my son, Drawtood, when he passed on, too.”
“What was it like?”
“I didn’t see Drawtood, of course, but Saleed was… calm. He seemed ready.”
“I’m not sure I am.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be, either.”
“But, yes, Afsan, I would like you to stay.”
“I will.”
“When I’m gone, will you tell Dybo that he was indeed the weakest?”
“He’s my friend.”
Maliden sighed. “Of course.”
“And I would never hurt my friend.”
“Thank you,” Maliden said.
They waited quietly together.
I, too, waited quietly, waited for millions of years.
I missed the Jijaki. None of the other worlds I had seeded had yet borne sapient life, although I had hopes for some of them. But my best prospects, I was sure, were the mammal planet and the dinosaur moon. I watched anxiously while this galaxy completed a quarter-revolution, desperately afraid that I had miscalculated, that, because of my interference, no intelligent life would evolve on either world.
But on the reptiles’ new home, despite the shock of transplantation, the slow and steady increase in brain-body ratios continued unabated. Likewise, the mammals, now that all niches were open to them on the Crucible, continued to climb up the same curve.
And, at last, intelligent life appeared, nearly simultaneously, on both worlds.
The dominant land life on the Crucible eventually came to call itself Humanity and to call their world Earth. In a place that came to be known as Canada, human geologists found the Burgess shale, fine-grained fossil-rich stones dating right from what they called the Cambrian explosion, a vast diversification of life, with dozens of new, fundamentally different body plans appearing virtually simultaneously.
Almost all of these body plans died out quickly on the Crucible, although I transplanted specimens of them to many worlds. One of those, the five-eyed, long-trunked Opabinia, was the ancestor of the Jijaki, those long-gone cousins the humans would never know.
For their part, on the moon I’d moved them to, the intelligent beings descended from Earth’s dinosaurs—in particular, from a dwarf tyrannosaur called Nanotyrannus—named themselves Quintaglios, “the People of Land.”
I thought I had succeeded. I thought I had allowed both sentient forms to flourish. But it eventually became horribly apparent that there was another factor I had failed to consider.
This universe differs from the one I evolved in. Here chaos reigns: sensitivity to initial conditions drives all systems. I thought I had done well, picking the third moon of a gas-giant world. But there were thirteen other moons, moons whose orbits and masses I could measure only approximately. I hadn’t been able to reliably plot orbits more than a few thousand years into the future. Nor could I accurately gauge the minuscule but not irrelevant pulls of the other planets in that system.
The tugs of all these masses produce a chaotic dance to which even the dancers can’t predict the outcome. The orbits of the moons changed over time, and eventually the third become the first, growing closer, and closer still, and at last, too close, to the planet it orbited. The Quintaglio world—now the innermost moon—continued to be tidally locked, so its day matched the length of its orbit, but now its days, days that are numbered, lasted slightly less than half the length of those on the Crucible.
I can nudge a comet ever so slightly, can attract hydrogen gas if conditions are favorable, even spin corkscrews of dark matter, but I can’t move worlds.
The Quintaglios have a myth about a God who had lost her hands. Without my Jijaki, I have lost mine.
But I watch.
And I hope.
*46*
Dybo’s authority was no longer in doubt. He ruled now unchallenged the eight provinces and the Fifty Packs.
Spenress, the only other surviving child of Len-Lends, had given up her claim to eventual power in Chu’toolar, and, instead, had accepted a minor position in Capital City. The thirst for blood was slaked, and no one was calling for further sanctions against her.
In six of the outlying provinces, siblings of Len-Lends still ruled, but they were slowly agreeing with the will of the people: their eventual successors would be appointed on the basis of merit, not bloodline.
And in Edz’toolar, the only province in which one of Dybo’s generation had already been ruling, instead of just apprenticing, there was currently no one serving as governor, for no one had been groomed to replace Rodlox. That problem would have to be solved soon, and perhaps it could provide a model for the subsequent successions in the other provinces and—the thought still startled Dybo somewhat, although he was learning to accept it—here in the Capital itself.