by David Boyle
The fire devoured whatever they fed it, the flames sending eerie shadows flickering about the nearby vegetation. A splash caught their attention, eyes darting first to the river, then each other. The forest was blackness, and Mark’s trip to the woodpile unusually swift. “Just for kicks,” he said, tossing a log on the fire, “what would it take to recharge that transporter of yours? Power-wise, I mean.”
“The question is irrelevant as doing so in this environment is not possible.”
“Humor me, okay? It’s like McClure said earlier. I’m looking for some kind of a number to get a feel for how big a problem it is.”
Wheajo considered Mark’s question. “We monitored numerous craft in orbit that utilize stellar flux collectors. You are familiar with such devices?”
“The principals if not the details. We call them solar arrays.”
“The terminology appears appropriate.” Wheajo glanced about the campsite and asked them to suggest an object of known length.
“If you’re looking for a yardstick, try one of the canoes. I’ve never actually taped it, but the Tripper here is seventeen feet end to end, and Charlie’s old beater around fifteen. Take your pick.”
Propped behind them and reasonably well lit, Ron’s Tripper was a convenient choice. “This will suffice,” Wheajo said. “If you would permit me access to the dawzon, I can measure the craft and create a proportionality based on its length that correlates with dimensions that you and I both recognize.”
Ron took a swig. “Been there before. Converting from English to metric drives me crazy. I still don’t have a good handle on how many kilometers are in a mile.” He finished up and tossed the empty. “Sit tight and I’ll get it.”
“The dawzon…. If I remember right, that’s that fold-up telescope.” Mark paused to listen as trumpets sounded faintly in the distance. “This is working out pretty cool. Now we get a chance to see it in action too.”
Ron trotted back. “If this can take measurements, it’s more than just a telescope.” He handed the device to Wheajo. “Okay, so how does it do that?”
The dawzon was activated with a touch of his lower thumb. The lens bloomed with a false color display of the Tripper, which Wheajo demonstrated could be varied in intensity. Another contact, this one triggered with his index finger, illuminated a spot that showed only on the rear lens.
Mark reached… then hesitated. “It won’t hurt, will it?”
“Not at all. The tracker is qite harmless.”
Mark reached again, the display screen showing a dot projected on a glowing image of his hand. “So what are you using there? Infrared?”
“I am unfamiliar with the terminology, but can state that the frequencies utilized are most typically not detectable visually.”
“You can quit with the science experiment, Bennett.”
“You said you wanted to know how it works.”
Wheajo continued, next activating a control that overlaid a vertical line on the screen, a dot reminiscent of a cursor blinking below it. Wheajo swept the stern of the canoe, and a symbol replaced the cursor. A sweep of the bow and the symbol changed, the measurement bracketed between the two lines. For as little time as the measurement had taken, Ron was certain the process would normally need but seconds. “Pretty classy,” he said. “How far can you be and still get an accurate reading?”
“With a means of physical support, range is effectively unlimited,” Wheajo said, pulling the yaltok from his pocket. “Without such support, as here, range and accuracy are operator dependent.” He programmed the yaltok, then keyed a control on the dawzon.
“Check it out.” The display screen on the yaltok contained the same symbols as on the dawzon.
“Even has auto-transfer. Guess that pretty much eliminates wrong entries.”
“That it does,” Wheajo said, offering him the dawzon.
Ron glanced at the faces opposite the fire: two impressed, one uncertain. “Ah, what the hell…? Hang on to it. I got too much shit to keep track of as it is. We ever need it, you’re the only one who knows how to use the thing anyway.”
“As you wish.” Wheajo touched his thigh, then slipped the dawzon into its conformal pocket and began his calculations.
Mark returned to his seat, still marveling. “Thing’s got all kinds of bells and whistles.”
“The night vision thing can definitely come in handy,” Ron agreed. “Anybody need a refill?”
“Sure, go for it,” Hayden said.
Ron had barely finished passing out the latest round when Wheajo announced the results of his simulation.
“If an array were constructed with a diameter one hundred times the length of your vessel, the brizva would require a minimum of five solar transits to collect the energy required, presuming a transform efficiency of 90 percent.”
Tony gasped. “That’s… that’s amazing.” The campsite fell suddenly silent save the ever present hiss of the rapid downstream. Hayden swallowed.
“Especially when you consider how tiny the transporter is.” Hayden had taken electronics simply to fill a prerequisite, yet remembered enough about batteries and electrolytes to know that the energy density Wheajo was implying exceeded every means of storage he knew of by orders of magnitude. “Blows away anything we got at home, that’s for certain.” His partner puffed out a smoke ring, staring off, apparently content to digest the answer to his question before asking a follow up. “And okay, so we’ve got our example. And if I could remember the equations, I suppose I could eventually work through the numbers and come up with how many joules that is. The thing I keep coming back to is: why does it need so much power?”
The eyes flickered, the body went rigid, their resident alien’s response seemingly on automatic. “The brizva is an inertially vectored 50 megamak life function qualified transporter. Maximum mass: 250 kilopiks; maximum range: 75 karsas. Single transport limit: 12% full charge equivalent, serial transports: 17%.” Wheajo blinked, and his expression softened. “Our jump consumed fully 83% full charge equivalent.” Wheajo waited as if expecting a particular response.
Mark knocked the ash from his cigar. “Get all that, Prentler?”
“Sure did. You?”
“Absolutely,” Mark said. “Got it filed in the same slot as the gas dynamics lectures that snowed me.”
“You must understand that the brizva was intended as a site-to-site transporter, the unit in my possession but the most recent physical incarnation of ongoing theoretical studies. Developmental research had long ago postulated the potential for temporal distortions during transport, the recognition of which resulted in prohibitions against theoretical or applications research due to paradoxical concerns. I can but presume that the resident algorithms were altered to an extent not heretofore recognized as capable of executing a transport such as ours.”
“Great,” Ron said. “So our so-called trip here was a first.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“We’re fucked, and I mean royally,” Charlie groaned. “The time machine’s dead. There’s no way to charge it. And even if Wheajo’s people can figure out where we are, even they don’t know how to get here!” Charlie’s bleak assessment found few dissenters.
“You put it like that,” Tony said, “we’re right back where we started.” The implications bordered on devastating.
“It’s the prohibition that worries me most,” Hayden said. “If you think about the experience needed, which sounds to be nonexistent, we’ve just given the folks doing the number crunching one hell of a problem to solve.”
Ron let down and wiped his mouth. “So what about this rescue of yours? Will it happen or what?”
“Our transport was indeed unique, as are the myriad operational and philosophical questions that require resolution, many of which exceed the technical and authoritative responsibilities resident within the crew of the Iolomho. I submit, however, that within the Collective there exists the expertise and resources to provide the answers we seek. There are, further
more, long established rules of planetary exploration that demand that neither equipment or crew be allowed to come into the possession of primitive hands. I can assure you that the Iolomho will not abandon its search without exhaustive efforts applied to their reacquisition.”
Wheajo’s confidence was less than infectious.
“So what’s that saying? We just cross our fingers?”
“You got a better plan, we’re all ears,” Mark said.
“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, Bull. But it is a way home.” Tony’s voice was soothing even if his message was not.
Bellows and snarls drifted across the darkness. Charlie shuddered. “We’re gonna die here. You all know that, don’t cha?”
Another snarl, closer this time, the hiss of the rapids filling the silence that followed.
“You don’t mind giving away any interstellar secrets,” Ron said in a particularly mocking tone. “How do you power the thing up?”
“Ship’s power is provided by twin matter-antimatter reactors,” Wheajo answered without hesitation. “Each alone is sufficient to power the Iolomho, life support, and all other of our equipment.”
“Nukes, huh? Maybe we’ll get lucky and find one around the next bend.” Ron’s attempt at humor went unappreciated. “Give it up, guys. We’re here for the duration. All we can do is wait for the rescue squad.”
A slim chance better than none, they were still left with the task of surviving until rescue arrived. While food, shelter, and clothing would ordinarily have covered the requisites, here ‘don’t get eaten’ was added to the list. Theirs was a world unlike any in human history, and in that regard they had but Mark’s admittedly incomplete insight.
Ron took a slug. “So, Mister Dinosaur Man, how bad off are we?”
Mark began by saying that the pteranodons seen earlier were the most evolved of the Mesozoic pterosaurs, and that placed them in the Cretaceous. The hadrosaurs had allowed a further refinement, his best estimate being that they were back a good 70 million years, hedging that “it could be five more, and maybe two to three less.”
Tony frowned. “Why that particular split?”
“Depending on what book you read, the Mesozoic ended between 65 and 72 million years ago. You know… where we came from? Or maybe I should I say when we came from. This is confusing. So anyway, I’m thinking we’re somewhere near the end of it, only I’m hoping not too close.” Mark looked as if expecting a reaction. “The dinosaurs went out with a bang, remember?”
“A bang?” Wheajo asked.
“Facts are a hard thing to pin down, so I probably shouldn’t say it like that, but the evidence is piling up that a comet slammed the planet around 65 million years ago. And according to the theory, the dust cloud from the impact blanketed the entire planet and turned the place into a deep freeze. Killed liked 80% of everything alive at the time.”
“Wait a second,” Hayden said. “You mean there’s a comet out there right now with our name on it and headed our way?”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that, but yeah, I suppose that’s true.”
“It’s not going to hit while we’re here, is it?” Charlie asked, suddenly aware that as bad as it was, their situation could get a whole lot worse.
“Not a chance. Least ways not for a coupla million years. There’s an offshoot to the theory, again depending on whose evidence you believe, that says mass extinctions are cyclic. That there hasn’t been just one great extinction, but a whole series of them. That there’s something out there—lots of theories about that too—that periodically disturbs a part of the Ort cloud and sends hundreds, maybe thousands of comets spiraling in toward the sun. If that’s the case, and we were near the time, there’d be five, ten, who knows? maybe hundreds of comets visible on any given night. Take a look Bull… Lots of stars, but not a comet in sight.”
Mark found it an ironic stroke that he had at his disposal a means to confirm at least part of the theory. Did such a cloud exist?
“Yes,” Wheajo said. “The debris you refer to as the Ort cloud is a common artifact of stellar formation. The term cloud is an exaggeration of course, but its density is measurable. That density, along with other stellar attributes, can be used as determinants of a system’s age.” Wheajo considered the last part of Mark’s comment. “I am, however, unaware of a means by which that debris field can be disturbed on a periodic basis.” His expression suggested he would pursue the matter further.
“Great. So we’re not going to be flattened by a comet. What about the critters?” Ron asked, hoping to get back on track. “What can we expect from them?”
Far from expert on such a vast subject, Mark started by emphasizing that most of the animals they would encounter would be plant eaters, or more technically, herbivores. The hadrosaurs—“They’re also called duckbills”—were an example, and if the fossil evidence was any indication, were the most prevalent dinosaur around, second only to the ceratopsians. “They’re the guys with the big frills at the back of their heads. You’ll know who they are if and when you see them.” Then there were the ankylosaurs, and the ornithischians—literally the ostrich types—and a whole slew of others. Mark was saddened by the thought that they wouldn’t be seeing any of the big, long-necked sauropods so prevalent in museums. “Last I read, all of them went extinct millions of years ago.”
“The problem children, obviously, are the meat eaters like the one we saw earlier. There are big ones and little ones, and I’ve got to admit, I’m not sure which are worse. The books say there shouldn’t be too many of the top enders, but the smaller ones could be trouble, too. The sticky part is, there could be lots of them. Shapes and musculature are pretty well established, but virtually nothing is known about how any of them lived day to day. And to questions about how well they see, how good they smell or hear, what they eat and how often… I’ve got a really simple answer: I have no clue.
“One thing’s for sure. We’re all going to learn a lot more about dinosaurs than any paleontologist that ever lived.” Mark winked at Ron before taking a swig from his beer. “Any questions?”
Charlie wanted to know how well dinosaurs could swim, and whether they could climb trees. Tony was curious about how they might taste, a question that elicited more than one smile. Mark answered the questions he could, and shrugged off the ones he couldn’t. No one asked the hard questions, like about warm bloodedness and what that would mean, or predator to prey ratios, and Mark made no attempt to expound on them himself. For the time being, some questions were best left unanswered.
With a better understanding of what they might find, they agreed to scout the island before taking actions of consequence. Among many others, efforts would be made to identify the dinosaurs that frequented the island and its surrounds. Thereafter, and of necessity governed by animal movements, an attempt would be made to kill one, an event they hoped would educate them on dinosaur anatomy, knowledge critical to conserving Ron’s finite supply of ammunition. In that regard Mark was quick to point out that Ron was not alone in having experience when it came to downing big game, and argued that dinosaurs were not immune to the killing power of a well-placed arrow, an assertion that Ron laughingly dismissed as nothing short of absurd.
The endlessly long day, the fatigue, and the too many unanswerable questions conspired to drive everyone to their tents for what most feared would be an equally long night. Someone wearily suggested they post a guard. A reasonable, even necessary precaution, no one stepped forward, Wheajo alone offering to take the first watch.
“Give me a few hours,” Tony said. “Once I get rid of this headache, I should be able to take over for an hour or two.
Mark nudged the alien on the way to his tent. “When Tony takes over, you can bunk with me. I’ve got the room and a blanket, and they’re yours to use if you’re interested.”
“You are most kind,” Wheajo said, nodding formally. “But that will not be necessary.”
“Whatever,” Mark yawned. “Just keep the
fire going.”
Wheajo stood watching as the humans retreated to their shelters. Never before had he encountered a species so rife in incongruities. Quick to anger at one moment, yet offering help and instruction at another, the humans were certain to require no less attention and scrutiny than the creatures residing across the river. The humans presented too small a sample to draw conclusions, yet he could not conceive that such beings were capable of the inroads to space as were apparent on ship’s approach to the planet. Inferiors perhaps, it was they who had taken him captive, a clear, if serendipitous demonstration that intellect alone was insufficient to guarantee survival in hostile environments such as this. How well he could inoculate himself from their incomprehensibly volatile interactions he could but speculate. The crew of the Iolomho consisted of members of many species, and whether forced or welcomed, duty demanded that he endeavor to become part of this crew as well.
Wheajo surveyed the now empty campsite, the breeze carrying the scents of myriad types of vegetation. Creatures foraged across the river—he listened closely—and quickly determined them incapable of posing a threat. Having assumed responsibility for the watch, he gathered feedstock from the woodpile, added some to the fire, and stockpiled the rest for later.
Thus assured the fire could be left unattended, he cleared an area down to bare soil a few feet from the fire. He scraped loose a handful and rubbed it against his ankles—the gland there introducing a scent said to be repugnant to animals—then parsed the soil carefully around the area just cleared. His preparations complete, he knelt with his back to the fire.
Wheajo had never before ‘camped out’. Always there had been the ship and its protective envelope of sensors and defenses. He peered about the campsite periphery and into the starlit vegetation beyond the reach of the fire’s flickering light. He listened finally—to the wind-rustled leaves, the rapids, the dinosaurs calling on the mainland—then tucked his legs alongside and settled to the ground. Fingers folded in his lap, he closed his eyes and let his body go rigid.
