by David Boyle
Bird Island was unguarded, and without dinosaurs to contest a landing—And how would you like your omelet?—an egg run was a definite possibility. “Who knows?” he smiled, heading in the opposite direction down the beach. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Long shadows stretched across the channel to where Wheajo stood watching as the last of the thick-bodied hadrosaurs slogged across the cove. Leaning on his spear, perplexed, the alien gave the impression of a shepherd whose flock had gotten into the wrong pasture.
“So?” Hayden asked, nearing the point. “Figure out what the party’s all about?” A head dropped, and a tail took its place, wagging above the trees along with a half dozen others. If the honks and squeals were to be believed, the dinosaurs were having a wonderful time.
A trace of a nod. “I have.”
There were times for a succinct answer. Only this wasn’t one of them. “And…?”
“We have inadvertently provided the animals a veritable bonanza.”
Between the trees crowding the shoreline and the dinosaurs bunched together, Hayden couldn’t tell one dinosaur from another, much less see what they were doing. “Want to run that by me again?”
“They are feeding on the cuttings.”
Hayden had heard crunching. Big animals, big feet… of course there’d be noise. Only now he realized the crunching wasn’t from the leftovers of their previous night’s stay, but the limbs and boughs they’d dragged out from the base of the evergreen. Tons at least. Nice and fresh and oh so nutritious. No wonder the dinosaurs were excited!
One of the bulls nipped a subordinate when it tried to weasel its way in. “We laid out the world’s biggest salad bar… and did it with our eyes open! How dumb was that?”
“Judgmental errors are most often obvious in retrospect. We could not know the animals’ dietary preferences.”
“Yeah, but still….”
Wheajo offered a Grotky adage: “Mistakes are the seeds of wisdom. Learn well, and strive never to repeat them.” Hayden seemed not the least placated. “What is done is done. Our task now is to determine a means of dislodging the creatures.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Hayden said, watching as a massive head rose above the frenzy, a leafy sprig in its bill. “But they don’t look like they’re going to want to leave any time soon. Any suggestions?”
A head snapped around as if suddenly aware of creatures on the nearby island, and sounded an alert. Another head came up, honking. Then another and another until a dozen hadrosaurs were blaring their discontent, their eyes all but invisible within the dark streaks that ran like war paint across their many scaled faces.
“Not at present.”
They were sitting around the fire, minutes later, roasting the last of the once feathered dinosaurs. “Why not just do like last time?”
Hayden frowned. “You mean the flaming torches thing?”
“You just told me they’re the same guys as last time. If it worked then, why not now?”
“Similarity of species,” Wheajo pointed out, “does not constitute verification.”
Charlie thought for a second. “Okay, so maybe this is a different bunch. Shouldn’t they at least act the same?”
“Again, a presumption.”
Ron forced down a swallow. “Drop the torch thing,” he croaked, taking a swig from the canteen. “You’re on the wrong track.”
Charlie straightened. “And why’s that?” he said in a huff.
“First off, the fire’s here and not there… unless you don’t mind building a fire in your canoe. Second, it’s too bright. There’s no contrast. Way I remember, it was the sparks that turned them around. Shadows and lights. Us yelling. All that lightning.”
Hayden nodded. “You put it like that, I guess it was pretty confusing.”
“No shit, Sherlock. And that fire of ours? It’s what got their attention in the first place. They were curious and came to investigate. Only that’s not why they’re here now.” A jumbled murmur of grunts and squeals spilled across the channel, the trees rustling as dinosaurs jostled for position. However big it was when they arrived, by the time the dinosaurs were finished, their earlier campsite would be considerably bigger.
Charlie tossed a bone in the fire. “So then what? We sit here and wait?”
“Waiting is not an option,” Wheajo said, the barren slot running the length of the evergreen a ready reminder of the sheer volume of forage. “If left on their own, with food, water, and shelter readily available, the creatures have no impetus to vacate the area. We must act.” He turned to Ron. “Perhaps your weapons can provide the necessary motivation.”
Ron got to his feet. “I hate the thought of wasting ammunition,” he said, looking to the cove. “But yeah, that’s where I was headed.”
“That a problem?”
Ron had only recently started keeping track of ammunition, and while a firm practitioner of 'one shot, one kill', he'd also planned for contingencies. Of the three weights of .30-06 ammunition he’d packed, he liked the flat-shooting 165 grain soft points best. The 180s had a higher muzzle energy and more of a punch, easily enough if you tagged a bear properly. Thing was, bears were no longer on the agenda. Had he known he’d be shooting dinosaurs, he’d have brought his Winchester .300 H&H Mag. The problem was he’d already burned through the 160s and had only a handful or so of 220s for a backup.
It came down to having little more than a box of rifle ammunition and what was left to feed the .44 Mag Charlie carried on his hip. Yeah, ammo was a problem. A big problem.
“Well is it?” Hayden repeated.
“No… no, not really. I’ve got plenty.”
They took both boats to make the biggest impression, hoping too that the dinosaurs would see them not as individuals but as an odd pair of two-headed animals cruising for a meal. They banged on the gunnels. Smacked the water. Shouted. Anything and everything to make noise.
“Okay guys! Breakfast time’s over!” Hayden shouted, flinging water into the air with his paddle.
Charlie hammered the hull between his feet, the Rockfinder’s skin set to ringing. “And that’s our campsite you’re messin’ with! So scat!” Dinosaurs sounded an all points alarm. Some on all fours. Some upright. Not a one seemed at all happy.
“Time to depart the premises!” Wheajo chimed in.
Ron eased ahead of the Tripper. “Nice, Wheajo. That’ll get their attention.”
They hadn’t noticed before, but three of the smaller dinosaurs had invaded the forest near the evergreen, the youngsters squalling in circles, bouncing off trees. “Little shits,” Charlie said, watching them crash about the trees. “Should’na been in there in the first place.” The tiny voices sounded terrified.
“Wow…! Can they frickin’ run or what!” The brilliantly patterned youngsters bounded past the adults and through the cycads, honks blaring in mass confusion as they splashed into the cove.
“It’s working, McClure…! Maybe you won’t have to shoot after all.”
A group of adults trundled forward, clicking their teeth, honking. They didn’t have the crests of most other duckbills, rather an enlarged ridge running the length of their heads. Their honks were higher-pitched as well, some sounding almost squeaky.
Heads bobbing, the group of seven edged toward shore like a dinosaurian wall. Frightened maybe, the hadrosaurs seemed nonetheless unwilling to give ground. Some on two legs, some on four, the dinosaurs marched steadily forward.
“Charlie. Take the one in the center.”
“The big one?”
“Yeah, the big one! And hurry up before they get their bearings.”
Charlie pulled the revolver while Ron lined up the canoe for the shot. Behind them, Hayden and Wheajo were still making a fuss, yelling, slapping the water. Ron held the boat steady. “Remember, just wing him.”
The dinosaur stood up…. Pow! Charlie’s arm kicked back, the boom reverberating across the lake as the duckbills heeled around, honking. There was no avoiding the cycads, fronds and s
and kicked up in a haze, barrel-shaped bodies tumbling like bowling pins, seed cones flying as the dinosaurs stampeded across the sandy apron and into the forest, their frightened calls fading into the cathedral-like expanse of the island’s east end.
“Good job, Bull. One round…? Hell, you can’t do better than that.”
“Did I hit ‘im?”
Ron shrugged. “Does it matter?” They could paddle down to make sure the dinosaurs left the island. But after being shot at? Ron didn’t see the point. “Okay, Wheajo,” he said, turning on his seat. “Playing field’s clear. What’s next?”
Actually it wasn’t. Clear, that is. And with the possibility, however remote, of the dinosaurs returning, Wheajo insisted that the remaining boughs be removed to a less troublesome location. It was unanticipated work, but necessary, at least in Wheajo’s opinion, yet within the hour they had dragged almost every scrap of the limbs they’d cut to the sandy bridge linking the two halves of the island.
“Big feet, huh?” Charlie was examining tracks.
“Yeah,” Ron said, wading knee deep into the cove. “Like everything else around here.” He rinsed his arms, now with a whole new batch of scratches to attend to.
“At least it isn’t raining,” Hayden said, similarly occupied. The sky was cloudless and the sun deliciously warm; a light breeze carrying the scent of freshly cut evergreen from the woods. “If you have to be out working, might as well be on a day like this.”
Wheajo was curled up with his computer gizmo.
“So the dinosaurs are back where they belong. And we’ve got the place cleaned to where you could eat off the ground. We ready yet?”
Wheajo tapped in a last set of commands. The display screen came back with the results. “Not qite.”
Ron twisted into an imitation Hunchback of Notre Dame, his teeth gleaming in the sunshine. That word again! He rolled his eyes at Hayden, who seemed ready to burst out laughing. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What’s next?”
“Review.”
Ron straightened up, frowning. “Review?”
“Indeed. Come, our preparations are nearly complete.”
They paddled the channel to camp, then hauled Charlie’s canoe onto the beach for a final fit check and examination. They’d already had their surprises; Wheajo’s intent at the moment to ensure there weren’t any more.
He verified that the antenna hadn’t been fractured during transport, that the cable from Charlie’s compound was well secured to the shaft and the brizva, and that the transporter itself was properly configured. The dawzon assembly was verified to be in similar readiness, lastly hooking the assembly in place and explaining in detail the importance of its positioning.
“If it’s got to be just so,” Hayden said, “I’d say let’s lock it down now.”
Wheajo considered the suggestion, and wasn’t enthused.
“I realize you got this all worked out. And believe me, I know the feeling… not wanting to let the thing out of your sight. Be like me turning the handgun over to Tony.”
Charlie smiled with a shudder. “There’s a scary thought.”
“But you do have to commit.” Ron glanced at the evergreen. “You guys are good at climbing and all, but to do a precision alignment while hanging on the side of a tree…? I’m with fuzz face here. I’d lock it down now.”
Wheajo had expended considerable effort developing his plan: reconfiguring devices, determining an assembly sequence, choosing a location. Yet the practicalities of implementation required changes, changes that the humans, for all their bickering, were adept at arriving at in real time. “Very well,” he said, after a moment. “We shall do as you suggest.”
With the dawzon assembly secured, they next ran through a mock erection of the lightning rod. And here too they uncovered a bug. Missed previously because the canoe had always been worked on while horizontal, they realized that the lower end of the sapling could slip when the boat was hung vertically, especially in high winds, a problem solved by taping stops to the thwart. They also hadn’t yet transferred the lift rope from the antenna to the boat, another oversight that was promptly corrected.
“You’re not doing anything useful, Prentler,” Ron said, noting the ties scattered across the canoe. “Dig a poker out of the fire so we can keep all these ends from fraying.”
“Sure thing, boss. Want me to grab you a beer while I’m at it?”
Charlie stuck a hand up. “Don’t forget me.”
The enhancements, while subtle, gave Wheajo confidence that his plan would ultimately succeed. He was pleased too that the humans did know how to work as a team. Together, they had come a very long way.
Wheajo had earlier configured the brizva to absorb the potentially seconds-long pulse of current it would receive when struck by lightning. He had analyzed the atmospheric composition and found that, of its major constituents, oxygen and carbon dioxide were enhanced in proportion to baseline measurements taken shortly after ship’s arrival on planet. The range of electrical breakdown potential was calculated, and that in turn used to determine the energy content of expected discharges. On the plus side, even median value strikes were projected to contain sufficient energy to fully charge the brizva; on the minus, there existed a small, if non-zero probability that the device could be overloaded.
The yaltok had been an invaluable aid. Designed primarily for material analysis, and to a lesser extent to catalyze chemical reactions, the instrument contained thousands of general purpose algorithms, some few of which had been used to create a program aimed at ways and means of recharging the brizva.
Configurable to function interactively, when queried about potential recharge methodologies, the yaltok had responded with queries of its own. The requested inputs ranged from storm frequency, intensity and duration, to local topography, atmospheric pressure, wind velocity and direction, and many others, Wheajo’s answers to most amounting to little more than observationally derived guesses. Each variable had been assigned upper and lower values, and, where Wheajo had greater confidence, a median value as well. Program evolution proceeded until it ranked each parameter consistently by criticality under various initial conditions. Replicated rankings, in turn, had given Wheajo confidence that the projected configuration for the brizva was correct.
As concerned positioning, the most crucial factors to eliciting a strike were height and separation, with the two entwined in a complex relationship wherein topography determined which would take precedence. The analytical task was to map known conditions against a theoretical high point in isolation. Hilltop sites were available to the west of their home island, the conundrum being access. Trips to and from even the closest necessitated long overland journeys, the gains in strike probability more than offset by the risks associated with the local citizenry. Next considered was their primary residence. Logistically ideal, their home island contained a multitude of trees that could serve as sites for the lightning rod, the detriment being its proximity to hills immediately to the west: strikes would invariably occur prior to reaching the island. For all its attributes, their home island offered scant probability for success.
With prospects for recharging the brizva less than encouraging, Wheajo had been working on alternatives when Mark’s rescue and subsequent revelations had changed everything. On and near the river, conditions such as he described did not exist, and as such Wheajo had simply not considered them. And while access to the lake had been described as difficult, the islands presented near ideal conditions. Even if discharges occurred on the mainland, the open water following would provide the time needed for passing storms to regain strength before reaching the island. The lofty vegetation was simply conchee du ku—in human terms, a bonus.
Logistics planning followed, and here too, Wheajo struck cylotrite[1]. His equipment and that of the humans had been functionally described in the yaltok, and a system level priority determined. Surprisingly, the dawzon had been identified as an element crucial to executing his overall plan.
In its class, the dawzon had few equals, and by regulation was never to be used indiscriminately. His were primarily survey missions, which in large measure accounted for the fact that on all his prior explorations Wheajo had been forced to use it only once. That occasion on Xyantha 4, where a show of force had been sufficient to dissuade the local inhabitants. Of his many planet falls, Ulaxiyat 12-3 was first to necessitate its use in earnest. He had been well trained in its use as a weapon, yet prior to his analyses even he had been unaware of the dawzon’s alternative functions.
The yaltok had revealed that the weapon contained an obscure subroutine that enabled it to be configured to generate an electromagnetic field, which, when bound to the wooden framework allowed the dawzon to transform the metal watercraft into a directional amplifier. Hull shape was fixed and far from ideal, the projected errcot yet raising the chances of a strike immensely. Discharges which might otherwise not occur would be catalyzed into flowing along the projected field lines, the origin being their makeshift lightning rod.
The variable most subject to selection was output.
Sufficiently energetic storms had occurred frequently since their arrival. And had they arrived but four days sooner, the storm of the previous night might well have provided the strike needed. But was that storm part of a larger pattern? And if so, what was the expected repeat frequency? As before, the questions were numerous and diverse, and Wheajo was again forced to provide estimates. What he knew with certainty were the power reserves available and the minimum consumption rate needed to generate an effective field. He also knew the inverse proportionality that governed this, his most crucial decision: that the dawzon was presently able to generate the minimum field for a span of 31 days, the maximum for but five.
The setting Wheajo chose was by necessity a compromise. Once activated, the dawzon would operate continuously for twenty-three days before its reserves fell below minimally effective thresholds.
