by John Helfers
‘‘Determination’s like concrete,’’ Dr. Dejesus said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Concrete’s solid, but it also can be a mortar that sticks things together.’’
‘‘You’re weird, Keisha.’’
‘‘Weirder than you know.’’
I had a hint of what form that weirdness might be taking a few weeks later when pictures of Stripes and Spots showed up on the news. They were full-grown now, muscular and pretty mean-looking. When the pictures had been taken, our Smilodons had been hunting and looked dreadful. Blood matted the fur around their mouths and on their chests. With those big saber teeth getting in the way, Smilodons are really messy eaters.
‘‘Prehistoric Monsters Stalk Wyoming Plains!’’ was about the mildest of the headlines. The others were a lot worse. Words like ‘‘heresy,’’ ‘‘impiety,’’ ‘‘unnatural,’’ and ‘‘horror’’ were thrown around a lot.
Religious leaders prated about violations of God’s Will. Conservationists ran their blood pressure up over deviations from the natural order. Politicians catered to all of them, but were forced to admit that what Dejesus Dreams Unlimited had done violated no state or federal law.
When Dr. Dejesus called a meeting, we all hurried there, everyone from the chef who made our meals to the highest ranking project head. Even the kids were there, because you don’t have a community as settled as ours was without having marriages and kids, and Dr. Dejesus had always stressed that we were a community.
On that day, we weren’t much of a community. There was a lot of whispering about security leaks and betrayal, more than a few suspicious glances around.
When we came to work for Dejesus Dreams Unlimited, each and every one of us had signed privacy and nondisclosure contracts that in hard copy rivaled War and Peace. The penalties went far, far beyond mere loss of employment. In fact, they guaranteed that the violator would not only be broke but completely unemployable in the end. Similar documents were signed by family members old enough to access a computer.
We all took our vow of silence pretty seriously, and now it appeared that someone had not only talked, but leaked out pictures as well.
Dr. Dejesus took the podium at the front of the lecture hall.
‘‘You’ve all heard about the news services somehow acquiring pictures of Stripes and Spots.’’
Murmurs of agreement.
‘‘And of the unfavorable coverage this has brought to Dejesus Dreams Unlimited. I know you must be wondering who the traitor in our ranks is. Well, you can stop looking suspiciously at each other. The personwho sent out those pictures, who leaked the information to the mass media was not in violation of her contract because that person never signed a contract. That person, in short, was me.’’
Gasps. Expressions of astonishment. Then silence except for a baby who whimpered in surprise before falling under the spell of several hundred people all holding their breaths.
‘‘Moreover, this has been my intention from the start.’’
‘‘Spectacular,’’ Smitty said, his voice low but carrying in the absolute silence. ‘‘You said our first effort had to be spectacular.’’
‘‘That’s right, I did. Worthy of being a spectacle. Well, for the next few weeks, that’s just what Stripes and Spots are going to be—a carefully rationed spectacle. I’m sure one or two images will get out without my control, but I’ve already released just about the worst any photo journalist could get: full-grown saber-toothed tigers smeared with blood and animal gore.
‘‘I’ll be making some speeches to the press. Nothing I will say will be in any way, shape, or form a lie. I may, however, choose to withhold some information about forthcoming projects. I hope you will support me in this.
‘‘I remind you of the agreements you signed when you came to work for me. Obviously, some of you will be made offers that those doing the offering will think can’t be refused. However, I remind you of this. No one can offer you what I have already given you—the chance to make your professional dreams come true.’’
And she was right. Some of us were heading teams, long before we could have hoped to do in the rigidly structured academic world, certainly before we could hope to do so in the profit-minded private sector. Even those who were not yet heading teams or actively working on a pet project had ample evidence that such dreams were attainable.
The nonscientific professionals among us had lives others in their fields could only envy. The professionals who maintained our establishment—the chefs, housekeeping staff, groundskeepers—were paid admirable salaries. More importantly, they were given a degree of respect—as their being included in this meeting demonstrated—that they could never gain anywhere else.
Dr. Dejesus’ reminder of our contract with her was not a threat. It was a promise of future good things to come. We all knew it, even the kids.
As far as I know, despite temptations dangled in front of us that would beggar the imagination, no one did break their contract. The pressure from without united a community that was already close.
It was a good time.
As soon as the initial furor died down, and it was established that no matter what anyone did or said, Dejesus Dreams Unlimited could not be stopped, the movie stars started calling. The calls didn’t only come from movie stars but from celebrities of every shape and stripe.
Dr. Dejesus had the unattainable, and everyone assumed it was for sale.
Their shock when they found out it was not amused us all greatly. Dr. Dejesus filmed the interviews—with the participants’ consent—and we watched them evenings, passing around bowls of buttered popcorn. The celebrity who had bought human children from nations around the world in the name of good fellowship was perhaps the funniest in her indignation, but there were others who took Dr. Dejesus’ calm refusal almost as badly.
Less amusing was the legal pressure brought to bear, the attempts to close down the labs entirely. However, Dr. Dejesus had done her homework, and her firm of highly specialized lawyers had checked and double-checked her answers.
We were untouchable, and as Smitty’s Synthetocerastoddled knobby-kneed and adorable next to the mildly confused white-tailed doe who had been his foster mother, as my Epigaulus colony started cheeping and chirping while they darted up and down from their burrows, the reactions of the outside world didn’t seem much to matter.
We were under Dr. Dejesus’ aegis, and like a dark-skinned, dark-eyed Athene, she protected us from all harm.
I realized then as I never had before that Dr. Dejesus had chosen the community that was Dejesus Dreams Unlimited very carefully. Many of us either lacked outside families or were estranged from them. The housekeeping and groundskeeping staff provided a balance to the scientists. We were not forbidden the outside world, but most of us were too busy and too fulfilled by our lives within to desire much of what that the increasingly restricted outer world could offer.
In the world we shared, saber-toothed tigers hunted ungulates on the plains. Epigaulus dug intricate burrows with their horns and claws. Macrauchenia proved to be remarkably social, and our little herd would come over to have their round ears scratched. When you were distracted, they’d pick your pocket with those funny almost-trunk noses.
As years advanced, we went riding on mastodons, and watched Phiohippus foals frolic in the fields.
Then Dr. Dejesus told us changes were coming. She told us that some of our babies were going to be leaving home.
As before, the announcement was made to the entire community. The baby who had cried at that other landmark meeting was now wi
nning science fair prizes. His older brother was doing an internship at a different lab, and couldn’t wait to be allowed to come work at ‘‘home.’’
I was still tall, but no longer quite as lean. Dr. Dejesus’ dreadlocks had twists of silver as well as the perennial crystal beads. We’d lost a few of the originals. Smitty had died two years before, and we’d all wept as a marble replica of his beloved Synthetoceras was raised over his grave.
But Jonesy was still there, and so was I, and so were any number of others who had become family and tribe. And from the expressions on those familiar faces, not one in ten had a hint this was coming—and a large number of those who were looking uncomfortably at the rest of us were from the legal and marketing divisions.
Both of those had become necessary after that initial ‘‘leak.’’ The absolute certainty that Dejesus Dreams Unlimited would sue and would win in court had been needed to protect our property and airspace from people who ‘‘just wanted a look.’’
Marketing had taken over releasing information in the form of educational videos. They also handled the scholarship program, the science fair awards, and, after someone commented that we might as well get a slice of the burgeoning soft toy market, the franchising of official ‘‘Unlimited Limited’’ toy editions of our various creatures.
My wife, Laura, was on the legal team, and I saw her sneaking a guilty look my way—obviously wondering if I’d be pissed that she hadn’t told me about this new development. I gave her a little shake of the head and a reassuring smile. Privacy rules applied, even between us, and I was pleased to see her shoulders visibly relax.
‘‘We’re getting crowded here,’’ Dr. Dejesus said. ‘‘It’s time for us to branch out. There will be a presentation by the legal staff later, showing any and all who care to know the details of how we set this up, but I’ll give you the short form.
‘‘First, we’re not selling any of your babies. Every single creature who leaves lands owned by Dejesus Dreams Unlimited will continue under our sole ownership, as will any of their offspring—should we choose to remove the breeding inhibitors.
‘‘Second, neutral but inviolable genetic markers put in place by Dr. Sovak’s team will assure that if anyone makes bold enough to violate the stringent legal agreements against anyone using any of our creatures as stock for their own creation efforts, we will be able to prove this is the case and take appropriate legal actions. This will include, of course, our reclaiming the animals in question.
‘‘Third, for various reasons, I have not chosen to have lands held by Dejesus Dreams Unlimited opened to the public. Although a few of our creatures have gone on tour, those tours have been carefully moderated. Even so, they were stressful for everyone— human and animal—involved.
I hope that through this agreement, we can now permit Wonder out in the world, without risking the sanctuary we have created here.’’
A little girl—all right, I admit it, my little girl, Hannah, who really should have known better—piped out, ‘‘Dr. Dejesus, where are they going?’’
‘‘They’re going to lands placed in specific trust for them by the Smithsonian Institution, under the greater auspices of the federal government of the United States. The details of our agreement will be available to any of you who wish to read it. It’s rather dry, but basically it states that those lands will be used exclusively for wildlife—including our wildlife—and for wildlife alone.
‘‘There will be no shared use of the land, not for mining or grazing or anything that any of our clever legal people could think to insert into the clauses. The one thing that will be permitted is limited touring of the grounds. The parameters of those tours have been worked out in detail. Our creatures will not be held in cages so that they can be gawked at. Rather, the gawkers—who will pay on a sliding scale for the privilege—will be the ones caged.’’
This brought a good deal of laughter because a similar policy had always reigned on Dejesus Dreams Unlimited’s own lands. The creatures had implants that were a high-grade descendant of the invisible fences that became common at the end of the twentieth century. Even the most intellectually challenged of our creatures learned very quickly to stay within Dejesus lands and out of those areas reserved for humans. However, that was to protect them. From the start, it was made clear that we were responsible for protecting ourselves.
Dr. Dejesus was asked about this over and over again, especially during those early years when Stripes and Spots were everyone’s hottest news item.
‘‘Heavens!’’ she’d reply, rolling her eyes and looking exasperated. ‘‘Humans are always saying they’re the most intelligent creatures ever to walk the Earth. Surely I’m not expecting too much when I ask my staff to stay out of the animal’s areas.’’
She didn’t ask too much of us, but later, after the legal briefing, when I spoke to Laura in the privacy of our own home, I learned that the restrictions at the Smithsonian enclave would be much higher.
‘‘No mastodon rides for them,’’ she said, and that pretty much summed it up.
The Smithsonian was granted custody of a small pride of Smilodons and nice herds of Synthetoceras and Macrauchenia. They also got a mastodon bull who could not get along with his fellows, and throve where he believed himself ruler of all he surveyed.
They were kept apart from each other—Smilodons really like nothing better than a large helping of fresh Macrauchenia—but they all had other animals in their enclosures. Most of these were herbivores, because, although we were long beyond the days when a single Smilodon was the impossible dream, we did not have unlimited resources.
Do we ever?
At the heart of the area where people wait for the ‘‘cages’’ from which they can tour Wonder Park, a very active colony of Epigaulus was established. It’s not just my opinion that they are endlessly entertaining. They’ve even outsold Smilodons at the soft toy shop.
Our prehistoric creatures were the standout stars of the new park, but both the Smithsonian and our own people knew from the start that they wouldn’t be enough to justify the very high ticket price Dr. Dejesus had insisted be charged. (Very high to those who could afford it, I should mention; educational groups got a discount, a very steep one at times).
All along, Dr. Dejesus’ intention was that the park would branch out to include North American species. The Wonder Park was built in the plains, because that was the terrain best suited to the prehistoric creatures we’d loaned them. It also happened to suit any number of native North American wildlife as well. So Wonder Park became a place where the buffalo roamed, and the deer and antelope played.
Wolves, too, and coyotes. Prairie chickens. Elk. Raptors.
Later, a fringe habitat was established, allowing the park to include mountain lions, trout, grizzly bears, eagles, and all those creatures who do a bit better when the land goes up and down.
Dejesus Dreams Unlimited contributed a few creatures to this expanded park, too. Everyone’s personal favorite turned out to be the highly ferocious Megalictis, a grizzly bear-sized creature that’s what a wolverine wants to be when it grows up.
Very little was made sanitized and wholesome. The ecosystem was permitted to balance itself, with intervention only in circumstances where drought or other extreme weather conditions might threaten the environment.
That meant no tidy feeding stations and bored animals standing around waiting for the keeper to come dump hay. That meant that more than one school group saw that the cute baby deer doesn’t always get away. That meant that more than one group of bored socialites, sipping their champagne and
looking out the windows of air-conditioned conveyances, learned firsthand that survival of the fittest is not a game played in Wall Street boardrooms.
Wonder, as Dr. Dejesus never tired of saying, needs a spicing of danger or it becomes merely routine.
My hair is gray now. Laura assures me that I look very distinguished when I stand up to speak in my new role as the head of Dejesus Dreams Unlimited. Our dark-eyed, dark-skinned Athene went from us fifteen years ago.
Cancer.
I think she’d appreciate what we’ve done. There are Wonder Parks on all the continents now. Three in different climate zones in North America. In each one, the native creatures live side by side with their ancestors—or sometimes with creatures for whom the evolutionary game ended with them. In each Wonder Park mile upon mile of land is protected and preserved.
Even in death, Dr. Dejesus spreads her aegis over us, using our wondering delight in what we lost in the past to protect the wonders we very nearly lost here in the present.
SWITCHING OFF THE LIGHTS
by Peter Crowther
Author, poet, editor, critic/essayist and now, with the multiple award-winning PS imprint, publisher, Peter Crowther has produced nineteen anthologies and more than one hundred short stories and novellas (many of which have been collected into five volumes: The Longest Single Note, Lonesome Roads, Cold Comforts, Songs of Leaving and Dark Times), plus Escardy Gap, a novel written in collaboration with James Lovegrove. Two of his stories have also been adapted for British TV. He has also edited many anthologies for DAW, including Moon Shots, Mars Probes, Constellations, and Forbidden Planets.
‘‘HOW HIGH IS IT?’’ Ben asked, aiming the question at nobody in particular.
The rocket gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight and, even though they knew they were there, neither of the children noticed the welded-on and riveted patches of dull, heavy-duty tinplate.
