The Jurassic Chronicles (Future Chronicles Book 15)

by Samuel Peralta

  Corli smiled as the hunters crested the berm, led by one who fairly gleamed with authority. “Magnificent.” It was one word, barely audible, but it was enough. The raptor’s muscles rippled under the lurid red skin as it stalked forward, a feathered crown held upward in an expression of interest. Its head cast back and forth in an economical motion before landing squarely in Corli’s direction, and there was intelligence in that gaze that Denis and Corli knew was well beyond anything animal.

  “Hello.” The greeting was all Corli could muster, one word striking the space between them like a hammer. There were seven in all, the leader flanked in a sort of honor guard by the more diminutive raptors who regarded her and Denis with a feral intensity. The leader cocked its head, then snorted lightly in a sound that verged into derision. Nine feet of silken predator settled back on its haunches to watch them, and Corli’s will flagged after an impossibly long moment under the punishing heat.

  “Hello?” she repeated. The dino never blinked, and save the occasional flare of a nostril that faced her, the animal might have been a masterful statuary rather than a near apex predator. It was female, of that Corli was certain, and gracile to the point of being dainty. Long hands drooped from the whipcord musculature of arms that looked neither frail nor weak. Its eyes glittered with cognition, and in the space between two of Corli’s heartbeats, it uttered a liquid trill that sent the other hunters into furious motion. They rushed forward, lifting Denis and her from the ground with practiced ease, then seizing their weapons without any hesitation.

  “This isn’t the first time,” Denis observed, and he was right. Corli simply nodded, never taking her eyes from the leader. When one of the raptors removed the clip from his MP5 without looking, Denis adjusted their chances of survival down even further. These weren’t charming savages. They were hunters, and he and Corli had been baited into a trap of such elegance that he fought the urge to throw his head back and roar with laughter.

  Corli reached the same conclusion. “Are the stones even real?” she asked the commander. There could be no other term for the tallest raptor who stood, watching them from less than ten feet away. With a saurian shrug, she bared her teeth in a laugh. The musical hiss was the last thing Denis and Corli heard before two of her guards flowed forward and jabbed them in the neck with quills.

  * * *

  She’d been disoriented once after a rather wild graduation party, but nothing like this. It took Corli an hour to regain her body, inch by agonizing inch as she sought and took command of each bone, each muscle, and every inch of skin. Her throat burned with thirst as she fought her way out of a fugue state.

  I’ve been drugged. How? When?

  Casting about with her eyes still closed, her hand brushed a canteen that was chill with condensation. She nearly whimpered with pleasure as she drank; the cold liquid was something more than just water. There was a fruity chemical element, and in seconds, she felt a sense of well-being begin to permeate her limbs. Drugged again. But this time, it was for the good.

  She was in a dim room. Sepia light trickled from one end in a vertical line, and there was something familiar about it. A hut? A tent? Corli looked up. There were posts and rods. A tent, then, and well built. It wasn’t meant to be temporary. She lay on a cot of surprising comfort. The mattress was a heavy sailcloth stitched with padding; a frame underneath kept her slightly elevated from the wooden floor. There were grooves in the polished planks. A shudder descended on the bones of her neck as she rolled off the cot to her feet, swaying like a newborn colt. Whatever this was, she needed to be outside. Of that much she was certain.

  She pushed through the flap and collapsed, slowly. A stone firepit greeted her nostrils with tantalizing aromas of meat and meals long past; more tents surrounded the central feature like a defensive ring. It was more than a camp, and less than a town. Trees obscured her view at a uniform distance. She could see no more than fifty yards in any direction save up, which was masked by a mist that curled about in lazy wisps. The ceiling was near, then, and most likely just over the treetops some forty feet up.

  “You’re awake. Took you long enough.” Corli whirled and experienced a moment of raw vertigo as Marion Bazanet caught her, easing her to a clear spot on the hard, packed dirt. With a Herculean effort, she mastered the rebellion in her stomach and peered up at the woman. The director was dirty, wild-eyed, and pale. The wraith before her was so different from the woman who hired Corli as to be another species, and their eyes locked in a dare as both fought to maintain their sanity.

  “You’re here. Where is here?” Corli croaked. The smell of plastic and ozone cut through the folksy overlay of outdoor cooking.

  “Here is…” Marion laughed, a brittle, charmless noise of utter defeat. “I’ll let you decide. I’ve been awake for most of the day. They fed us after they took Denis. Don’t worry, it wasn’t him that I cooked, but I can’t say exactly what we’ll be eating.”

  As Corli was pulled to her feet, she took a closer look around. There was something downwind. A gentle slope led forward, to low shrubs and something hazy. They began to move toward the anomaly as one.

  “My Point insertion missed by a full day. I think the dinos had me before you’d even left. So much for paradox,” Marion finished with a rueful twist of her thin lips. It made her look like a bird.

  “You—you came back? To here? Why?” Corli had known it was possible based on their meeting, of course, but she didn’t think that an avaricious control freak like Marion Bazanet would ever put herself at risk.

  “Good question. Before I was a cold-hearted serpent, I was an engineer. I wanted to know, and see for myself. And look how that worked out.” Again, the wintry laugh. “I have trust issues, too.” She blew upward at a strand of hair, and Corli saw the girl Marion had been once, before she molded herself into a creature of ruthless ambition.

  “Why did they save us?” Corli put words to the only question that mattered.

  Marion replied with an amiable shrug. Whatever her previous personality might have been, it was replaced with a cheerful fatalism that Corli found even less appealing. When she got her sea legs, she intended to find a way out.

  They reached the end of the decline and were held back by thorny shrubs nearly covering a glassine wall that waited on the other side. Shadows moved behind it, and Corli leaned forward, straining to let her eyes adjust. It was like smoked glass that wavered slightly as she got closer.

  “Is it the raptors?” She knew the answer, but asked it anyway.

  Marion’s only answer was a grunt. “They come and go. Looks like—well, you tell me.”

  Corli settled herself to watch. The hunters were in … rows? A pattern, but not entirely orderly. More like a group, she decided. There was a taller raptor in the front with an unmistakable air of command, but it wasn’t the one who had directed their capture. This one seemed thicker, with feathers that tinged from red into white. Older, perhaps, but still vigorous. She—yes, it was a female, Corli thought—directed the smaller raptors around with complete ease. They all looked to her as her long hands stabbed the air, pointing and gesturing in a kind of rote way that Corli had seen many times before, when she’d been a student years before.

  “Oh my god.” Then she slumped into Marion’s arms as the fear took hold.

  * * *

  “Is that why they can’t be trusted to live freely?” Kaskia asked, her expression bright and curious. She was among the best students, and the teacher didn’t hesitate to beam at her acute query.

  “It is. Well, that and the fact that their society is malformed. You see the divider? We have to use that in order to assure that proper rules are observed. If we were to remove it …” She trailed off, her tone intimating that unspeakable horrors might result and it was best to accept her word for it.

  In the back of the group, a small scuffle broke out as students jockeyed for position. A lone cry sifted upward from the growing melee; it was Takta, a second year who was notorious for inviting tr
ouble.

  “Takta! Are you so enamored with cleaning the dining tables that you’d like another cycle of it?” The teacher’s voice crackled with irritation and authority. A hush fell over the class, who swayed in place save for the last row, parting to reveal Takta and a small third-year student next to her. He dipped his gaze in hopes of becoming invisible, just as students everywhere had done since time immemorial.

  “It was Basti! He said that they keep the girls together because they’re stupid, not because the boys will do bad stuff.” She preened while delivering the death blow to any chance that Basti may have had at escaping notice.

  The hissing swept through the class like a prairie wind. They parted to allow their teacher unfettered access to Basti, who stood shaking now. She lifted his chin to meet her gaze. “Is that true?” The words were frigid with menace.

  Basti’s throat worked as he tried to croak a defense, but he failed. After a searing glare from his teacher, he nodded once, nearly imperceptible but as good as a written confession.

  “I need to hear it from you.” She lifted his chin higher, gripping him so tightly his skin paled.

  “Y-yes, Clutch Mother.” A whisper, but enough.

  Teacher straightened, shaking her long head in amazement. Her claws slid from Basti’s face to grip the end of his muzzle and pierce one nostril with a muffled pop. Even in the younger males, their hide was tough.

  Basti did not move. “Do you know,” she began in a conversational tone, raising her voice so that she could be heard, “why we keep them separated, Basti?” It was entirely rhetorical, so she went on with the ease of a lifelong educator. “Where they are from, the males are prone to uncontrolled breeding urges. War isn’t just common, it’s their way. They swagger and strut and overrun everything until the females are forced to alter their very nature just to assure the continuance of the species. They have had no maternal revolution, children, and their world is dying. It’s a cesspool of hatred and misunderstanding, unlike ours. Only by achieving the true order of things can a society hope to reach maximum peace and potential, and that is simply … not possible when males are left in charge.” She punctuated the last words with tugs on the soft tissue of Basti’s muzzle, leaving a spattering rain of blood in the wake of her claw. He whimpered, a keening noise, then fell silent when she turned her glare back to him. “So you see, we are helping these noble beasts with our program. It isn’t their fault—they cannot hope to understand what we do, but rather, they can serve as a physical reminder of what happens when the natural order is upset.”

  “Umm, Clutch Mother?” A timid voice broke the tension. It was a female, her claw raised with an obsequious wave.

  “Yes, Numra?” Clutch Mother’s response was pleasant, even cheerful.

  “Why do we bring them here, if they’re needed to control the males?” Numra’s voice was careful as she processed the question even while asking.

  “An excellent point, child.” Numra beamed at the compliment. The teacher went on to dispense the heart of the matter, as she couldn’t leave the class thinking that placing females of any sort in captivity was a wise course of action. But, as she knew, needs must. “We keep exceptional females of their species here in preparation for the inevitable destruction of their kind. It would be criminal of us not to do so, despite the violation.”

  “So they’re like us?” Another question, and a good one. She had them now.

  “Only in the sense that they can build, and have languages. They’re still quite beastly, not yet in control of their base instincts. That’s where we come in. Yes, it goes against all of the societal directives to assault a favored female, but we must break a few eggs to make a scramble, you know.” She granted them a warm smile, her jaw dropping into the position of open approval. It was rare, and they all cooed at her praise.

  A rustle passed through the class just then. The teacher raised one brow ridge, demanding an explanation without making a sound. Numra spoke again, but only after raising a claw once more. She understood the order of things. “I think they’re watching us.” There was awe in her voice at the cleverness of the beasts. As one, the class turned to regard the enclosure.

  “And so they are.” She tapped the glass with a clucking sound, like one might make to a hatchling. Clutch Mother’s voice rang with pride.

  It had been an excellent lesson.

  A Word from Terry Maggert

  Like every other kid in my neighborhood, I watched the Apollo missions go up from my front yard, eyes filled with the kind of glory and wonder that used to be reserved for knights and mythical lands. I drank Tang, knew the astronauts by name, and watched in utter awe as the sections of Saturn V rocket trundled down the highway prior to their date with destiny.

  But, through a single book, I met dinosaurs.

  Naturally, I shifted my focus from wanting to be an astronaut to wanting to be an astronaut who herded dinosaurs, preferably in a Cretaceous swamp filled with every kind of fang and claw imaginable. That was more than forty years ago, and the desire to know these creatures hasn’t faded. If anything, the discovery of feathers, maternal dinosaur behavior and wildly unforeseen variants has kept my love for dinosaurs at a steady boil.

  When I’m not writing, I teach history. It’s a safe bet that for many of the catastrophes we study in the west, the British had a guiding hand. “Noble Savage” is my paean to the tin-eared mastery of Kipling, who saw the world in a rather British light—but wasn’t shy about writing it down in gloriously elitist terms. I quoted him directly in my first novel, The Forest Bull, using his blandly accurate notion that in nature, it is often the female of the species who is most dangerous.

  Combining these ideas, a dollop of corporate greed, and an intelligent, matriarchal dinosaur species, it was easy to imagine what would happen if the Holy Grail was in reach, but the prize turned out to be a bright, beautiful lie.

  Nature is as savage as it needs to be. We are a savage as we can be. Therein lies the difference, whether we be raptors, humans, or a creature in the twilight of two worlds.

  For other novels, news, and such, visit me at www.terrymaggert.com, connect with me on social media, or look for me at an author event near you. Thanks for reading.

  An Implant and a Hard Place

  by Zen DiPietro

  BRAK CLICKED HER TEETH in frustration. Scrap. Her radial microtuner had gone out of alignment again. Sure, she habitually used it for longer periods of time than it was designed for, but she hadn’t gone that far beyond spec. This time. She’d have to get it realigned to continue working on her current project’s self-diagnostic routines. She rested her prosthetic hands on that project—a cybernetic leg. The irony of one begetting the other never escaped her.

  She crossed to the other side of her lab and sent a quick message via voicecom asking Kellis to come recalibrate the microtuner again.

  “If you have time,” she added before closing the channel. Kellis might already have a full schedule for the day. Brak could recalibrate the microtuner herself if she must, but the new engineer could get the job done in half the time. Kellis was practically a prodigy when it came to mechanical devices. A shame she’d gone into engineering instead of cybernetics, where she would have been a tremendous help to Brak. But Kellis was happy, and she’d quickly become a popular colleague on board the Onari.

  Brak couldn’t claim to be so adored. Oh, she earned a great deal of respect and she had a few good friends on board, but people tended to find her intense and sometimes brooding. She really didn’t know why. Among her people, she was considered entirely too nonchalant and irreverent. Perhaps it was a communication issue. As a member of the only species in the sector not evolved from simians, she sometimes found herself failing to make herself understood.

  She stepped away from the voicecom as she considered the obstacle. Her people had evolved from dinosaurs on Briv, one of the many Planetary Alliance Cooperative planets. The Briveen’s minimal facial expressions often confused the other species, w
hose faces were always twisting one way or another. Since most Briveen preferred to remain on their homeworld, relatively few people of other species were truly adept at translating Briveen head tilts, nonverbal sounds, and scent emissions. Brak had spent years studying simian nonverbal communication and trying to adapt it to her own habits.

  Being so physically different from her colleagues didn’t make it any easier to integrate, but she couldn’t do anything about that. She smoothed a hand over her hairless head, wondering if her blue-green scaly skin disturbed any of her coworkers. At least some simians seemed to find it fascinating. Beautiful, even. Her wide-spaced eyes and high cheekbones also seemed well received, though her size sometimes intimidated. She stood taller than most and had a particularly muscular lower body. But Rescans were large, sturdy people and didn’t seem to have the interpersonal issues she did. Hm.

  She could solve her integration issue, she was sure. She’d come so far already. Maybe if she— Her thoughts were interrupted as the voicecom chimed with an incoming call. She returned to the voicecom and punched the button to receive the message, expecting it to be Kellis.

  “Honorable Eighth Daughter Brak of the House Grakaldi,” the man intoned with a perfectly practiced Briveen bow rather than the customary PAC officer variety that his position warranted.

  Brak made a soft growl of annoyance. “I’ve told you I don’t use Briveen titles or customs, Admiral.” She’d do more than snarl a little if she were talking to anyone but the person in charge of the majority of her research funding.

  Admiral Krazinski was a good-looking man in his middle years, by human standards. He possessed what Brak supposed was an ideal personality for diplomacy. When he chose to play nice.