But now here was Noth, young, eager, horny, plummeting out of the air to land at Solo’s feet. Solo turned like a tank turret to face this new challenger.
Noth hadn’t known Solo was here. But he remembered him.
Noth was a creature of the here and now. He had no real conception of yesterday or tomorrow, and his memory was not arranged in an orderly narrative; it was more like a corridor of vivid images, rendered in sight and scent. But the powerful stink of Solo brought images flooding back, shards and glimpses of that dreadful day in another part of the forest, his mother’s despairing howl as she fell into the pit of teeth.
Conflicting impulses surged through him. He should display, stink-fight — or else he should show his submission to this powerful creature, just as Rival had submitted to him.
But Solo didn’t fit. He didn’t obey any of the unwritten rules that governed the notharctus’ fragile society. He had just mutilated the troop’s dominant male. Solo would surely not be satisfied with a symbolic victory. Solo, huge, still, meant to injure him, if not kill him.
And here was Right, Noth’s only kin, cowering in the foliage at Solo’s feet. Here were the females with whom he had lived for half a year, and whose swelling pudenda had filled him with anticipatory lust for days, weeks — and here was this monster, Solo, who had destroyed everything he had grown up with.
He stood upright and howled.
Solo, startled, hesitated.
Noth’s wrists and crotch itched with musk. He performed a frantic, one-second display, an accelerated demonstration of his power and youth. Then, blindly, not understanding what he was doing, he lowered his head and barged at Solo’s midriff. With a gasping hoot, Solo was knocked backward, finishing on his back in a clump of foliage.
If he had followed up, Noth could have capitalized on his surprise attack. But he had never fought a physical fight in his life. And Solo, with the instincts of an experienced fighter, twisted and slammed his knee against Noth’s temple. Noth went down face first and instinctively scrabbled for a hold. An immense mass crashed into his back, crushing him against the bark. And now Noth felt Solo’s incisors sink into the soft flesh of his neck. He screamed at the sharp pain. He twisted and thrashed. He could not shake off Solo — but the vigor of his movements tipped them both off the narrow branch.
Hooting, with Solo’s teeth ripping at his flesh, Noth found himself plummeting through layers of foliage and twigs.
They crashed to the ground, their fall scarcely cushioned by the rotting leaf cover. But Solo was shaken free, his clenched jaw giving one last rip at Noth’s shoulder. Solo made his own display of aggression. He roared, an ugly, unstructured noise. He stood upright and hammered his small fists into the detritus at his feet; bits of leaf flew everywhere, surrounding him in a loose, sunlit cloud.
It was a battle of two small creatures. But much larger animals, watching timidly, backed away from Solo’s ferocity.
It was a one-sided contest. Solo advanced on Noth, stalking out of the settling leaf fragments. Noth watched, not even displaying, as if hypnotized. He looked down in horror at his shoulder, where a flap of skin hung loose and blood soaked into his fur.
But now a burly mass came flying at Solo. It was the Emperor. Even as the blood continued to gush from his ragged scrotum, the big notharctus slammed feetfirst into Solo’s back, knocking him flat, facedown in the debris.
This time Noth did not hesitate. He threw himself at Solo and began to pummel his back and shoulders with feet, hands, and muzzle. The Emperor joined in — and so did more of the males, until Solo was immersed beneath a blanket of hooting, jostling, inexperienced assailants. Any one of them Solo would have defeated — but not all of them together. Under the rain of inexpertly aimed blows, it was impossible even for him to rise.
At last he burrowed like a taeniodont through the forest floor detritus, out from under the clamoring pack. By the time the ragged army had noticed he was gone, that their punches and kicks were either landing in the dirt or on each other, Solo was limping away.
Aching, battered, Noth clambered back into the tree. When he got there he found the females grooming each other calmly, picking bits of dried semen out of their crotch hair, as if the combat beneath had never taken place. The Emperor was sitting quietly with the female Biggest. His flow of blood had stilled — but his copulatory campaign was suspended forever.
And here was Rival, vigorously covering Right. Noth saw his sister’s face buried in her own chest hair, low squeaks of pleasure emanating from her throat. Noth felt an oddly warm glow. He was not driven by jealousy of other males over his sister — even of this male whom he had bested, and who had apparently recovered very quickly. A deeper biochemical part of him recognized that with his sister pregnant, the line would go on: the shining unbroken molecular thread that stretched from Purga, through this moment lit by the low polar sun, on into unimaginable futures.
He heard a remote lowing. It was the call of a moeritherium, the matriarch of a migrant herd, walking slowly up from the south. With the return of the herds, summer had truly come again. And from all over the forest came a high keening: It was the song of the notharctus, a song of loneliness and wonder.
In just a few years Noth’s life would be over. Soon his kind would be gone too, their descendants transmuted into new forms; and soon, as Earth cooled from this midsummer peak, even the polar forest would shrivel and die. But for now — bloodied, panting, his fur covered with leaf mold — this was Noth’s moment, his day in the light.
The huge female Big approached him. He trilled gently. With a glance into his eyes, she turned her back and presented to him. Noth entered her quickly, and his world dissolved into unthinking pleasure.
CHAPTER 6
The Crossing
Congo River, West Africa. Circa 32 million years before present.
I
Here, close to its final oceanic destination, the mighty river pushed sluggishly between walls of lush, moist forest. There were many meanders and oxbow lakes, which, cut off from the flow, had turned into stagnant marshes and ponds. It was as if the river were exhausted, its long journey done — but this river was draining the heart of a continent.
And this late summer there had been much rain. The river was high, and it spilled over onto land where the water table was already near the surface. The dense, muddy water contained fragments of eroded rock, mud, and living things. There were even rafts of tangled branches and bits of vegetation drifting like unruly schooners down the river’s tremendous length, relics that had already traveled thousands of kilometers from their point of origin.
High above the water, in the forest’s cacophonous upper story, the anthros were making their daily destructive procession.
They were like monkeys. Running along branches, using their powerful arms to swing from tree to tree, they stripped off fruit, ripped open palm fronds, and tore away great swaths of bark to get at insects. Crowds of females moved and worked together, occasionally stopping for a moment’s grooming. There were mothers with infants clinging to their backs and bellies, supported by clusters of aunts. Males, larger, wider-ranging, made loose alliances that merged and fragmented constantly as they competed for food, status, and access to the females.
More than thirty anthros worked here. They were clever, efficient foragers, and where they passed, they laid waste. It was a joyful, clamoring racket of feeding, cooperating, and challenging.