DINOSAURS
Walter Jon Williams
DINOSAURS
This Hugo Award-nominated novelette takes place in the distant future, when a highly-evolved humanity finds itself at war with the alien Shars. The product of eight million years of evolution, Ambassador Drill is sent to make peace... but does he retain enough of his humanity to recognize that of his enemies?
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-1-62579-308-9
Copyright (c) 1987, 2014 by Walter Jon Williams
Smashwords edition published by Walter Jon Williams
Cover art by Innovari
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Electronic version by Baen Books
Originally published in 1987
DINOSAURS
The Shars seethed in the dim light of their ruddy sun. Pointed faces raised to the sky, they sniffed the faint wind for sign of the stranger and scented only hydrocarbons, far-off vegetations, damp fur, the sweat of excitement and fear. Weak eyes peered upward, glistened with hope, anxiety, apprehension, and saw only the faint pattern of stars. Short, excited barking sounds broke out here and there, but mostly the Shars crooned, a low ululation that told of sudden onslaught, destruction, war in distant reaches, and now the hope of peace.
The crowds surged left, then right. Individuals bounced high on their third legs, seeking a view, seeing only the wide sea of heads, the ears and muzzles pointed to the stars.
Suddenly, a screaming. High-pitched howls, a bright chorus of barks. The crowds surged again.
Something was crossing the field of stars.
The human ship was huge, vaster than anything they’d seen, a moonlet descending. Shars closed their eyes and shuddered in terror. The screaming turned to moans. Individuals leaped high, baring their teeth, barking in defiance of their fear. The air smelled of terror, incipient panic, anger.
War! cried some. Peace! cried others.
The crooning went on. We mourn, we mourn, it said, we mourn our dead billions.
We fear, said others.
Soundlessly, the human ship neared them, casting its vast shadow. Shars spilled outward from the spot beneath, bounding high on their third legs.
The human ship came to a silent rest. Dully, it reflected the dim red sun.
The Shars crooned their fear, their sorrow. And waited for the humans to emerge.
*
These! Yes. These. Drill, the human ambassador, gazed through his video walls at the sea of Shars, the moaning, leaping thousands that surrounded him. Through the mass a group was moving with purpose, heading for the airlock as per his instructions. His new Memory crawled restlessly in the armored hollow atop his skull. Stand by, he broadcast.
His knees made painful crackling noises as he walked toward the airlock, the silver ball of his translator rolling along the ceiling ahead of him. The walls mutated as he passed, showing him violet sky, far-off polygonal buildings; cold distant green... and here, nearby, a vast, dim plain covered with a golden tissue of Shars.
He reached the airlock and it began to open. Drill snuffed wetly at the alien smells— heat, dust, the musky scent of the Shars themselves.
Drill’s heart thumped in his chest. His dreams were coming true. He had waited all his life for this.
Mash, whimpered Lowbrain. Drill told it to be silent. Lowbrain protested vaguely, then obeyed.
Drill told Lowbrain to move. Cool, alien air brushed his skin. The Shars cried out sharply, moaned, fell back. They seemed a wild, sibilant ocean of pointed ears and dark, questing eyes. The group heading for the airlock vanished in the general retrograde movement, a stone washed by a pale tide. Beneath Drill’s feet was soft vegetation. His translator floated in the air before him. His mind flamed with wonder, but Lowbrain kept him moving.
The Shars fell back, moaning.
Drill stood eighteen feet tall on his two pillarlike legs, each with a splayed foot that displayed a horny underside and vestigial nails. His skin was ebony and was draped in folds over his vast naked body. His pendulous maleness swung loosely as he walked. As he stepped across the open space he was conscious of the fact that he was the ultimate product of nine million years of human evolution, all leading to the expansion, diversification, and perfection that was now humanity’s manifest existence.
He looked down at the little Shars, their white skin and golden fur, their strange, stiff tripod legs, the muzzles raised to him as if in awe. If your species survives, he thought benignly, you can look like me in another few million years.
The group of Shars that had been forging through the crowd were suddenly exposed when the crowd fell back from around them. On the perimeter were several Shars holding staffs— weapons, perhaps— in their clever little hands. In the center of these were a group of Shars wearing decorative ribbons to which metal plates had been attached. Badges of rank, Memory said. Ignore. The shadow of the translator bobbed toward them as Drill approached. Metallic geometrics rose from the group and hovered over them.
Recorders, Memory said. Artificial similarities to myself. Or possibly security devices. Disregard.
Drill was getting closer to the party, speeding up his instructions to Lowbrain, eventually entering Zen Synch. It would make Lowbrain hungrier but lessen the chance of any accidents.
The Shars carrying the staffs fell back. A wailing went up from the crowd as one of the Shars stepped toward Drill. The ribbons draped over her sloping shoulders failed to disguise four mammalian breasts.
Clear plastic bubbles covered her weak eyes. In Zen Synch with Memory and Lowbrain, Drill ambled up to her and raised his hands in friendly greeting. The Shar flinched at the expanse of the gesture.
“I am Ambassador Drill,” he said. “I am a human.”
The Shar gazed up at him. Her nose wrinkled as she listened to the booming voice of the translator. Her answer was a succession of sharp sounds, made high in the throat, somewhat unpleasant. Drill listened to the voice of his translator.
“I am President Gram of the InterSharian Sociability of Nations and Planets.” That’s how it came through in translation, anyway. Memory began feeding Drill referents for the word “nation.”
“I welcome you to our planet, Ambassador Drill.”
“Thank you, President Gram,” Drill said. “Shall we negotiate peace now?”
President Gram’s ears pricked forward, then back. There was a pause, and then from the vast circle of Shars came a mad torrent of hooting noises. The awesome sound lapped over Drill like the waves of a lunatic sea.
They approve your sentiment, said Memory.
I thought that’s what it meant, Drill said. Do you think we’ll get along?
Memory didn’t answer, but instead shifted to a more comfortable position in the saddle of Drill's skull.
Its job was to provide facts, not draw conclusions.
“If you could come into my Ship,” Drill said, “we could get started.”
“Will we then meet the other members of your delegation?”
Drill gazed down at the Shar. The fur on her shoulders was rising in odd tufts. She seemed to be making a concerted effort to calm it.
“There are no other members,” Drill said. “Just myself.”
His knees were paining him. He watched as the other members of the Shar party cast quick glances at each other.
“No secretaries? No assistants?” the President was saying.
“No,” Drill said. “Not at all. I’m the only conscious mind on Ship. Shall we get started?”
Eat! Eat! said Lowbrain. Drill ordered it to be silent. His
stomach grumbled.
“Perhaps,” said President Gram, gazing at the vastness of the human ship, “it would be best should we begin in a few hours. I should probably speak to the crowd. Would you care to listen?”
No need. Memory said. I will monitor.
“Thank you, no,” Drill said. “I shall return to Ship for food and sex. Please signal me when you are ready. Please bring any furniture you may need for your comfort. I do not believe my furniture would fit you, although we might be able to clone some later.”
The Shars’ ears all pricked forward. Drill entered Zen Synch, turned his huge body, and began accelerating toward the airlock. The sound of the crowd behind him was the murmuring of wind through a stand of trees.
Peace, he thought later, as he stood by the mash bins and fed his complaining stomach. It’s a simple thing. How long can it take to arrange?
Long, said Memory. Very long.
The thought disturbed him. He thought the first meeting had gone well.
After his meal, when he had sex, it wasn’t very good.
*
Memory had been monitoring the events outside Ship, and after Drill had completed sex, Memory showed him the outside events. They have been broadcast to the entire population, Memory said.
President Gram had moved to a local elevation and had spoken for some time. Drill found her speech interesting— it was rhythmic and incantorial, rising and falling in tone and volume, depending heavily on repetition and melody. The crowd participated, issuing forth with excited barks or low moans in response to her statements or questions, sometimes babbling in confusion when she posed them a conundrum. Memory only gave the highlights of the speech. “Unknown ...Attackers ...billions dead ...preparations advanced ...ready to defend ourselves ...offer of peace ...hope in the darkness .... unknown ...willing to take the chance ...peace ...peace ...hopeful smell ...peace.” At the end the other Shars were all singing “Peace! Peace!” in chorus while President Gram bounced up and down on her sturdy rear leg.
It sounds pretty, Drill thought. But why does she go on like that? Memory’s reply was swift.
Remember that the Shars are a generalized and social species, it said. President Gram’s power, and her ability to negotiate, derives from the degree of her popular support. In measures of this significance she must explain herself and her actions to the population in order to maintain their enthusiasm for her policies.
Primitive, Drill thought.
That is correct.
Why don’t they let her get on with her work? Drill asked.
There was no reply.
*
After an exchange of signals the Shar party assembled at the airlock. Several Shars had been mobilized to carry tables and stools. Drill sent a Frog to escort the Shars from the airlock to where he waited. The Frog met them inside the airlock, turned, and hopped on ahead through Ship’s airy, winding corridors. It had been trained to repeat “Follow me, follow me” in the Shars’ own language.
Drill waited in a semi-inclined position on a Slab. The Slab was an organic sub-species used as furniture, with an idiot brain capable of responding to human commands. The Shars entered cautiously, their weak eyes twitching in the bright light. “Welcome, Honorable President,” Drill said. “Up, Slab.”
Slab began to adjust itself to place Drill on his feet. The Shars were moving tables and stools into the vast room.
Frog was hopping in circles, making a wet noise at each landing. “Follow me, follow me,” it said.
The members of the Shar delegation who bore badges of rank stood in a body while the furniture-carriers bustled around them. Drill noticed, as Slab put him on his feet, that they were wrinkling their noses. He wondered what it meant.
His knees crackled as he came fully upright. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “Frog will show your laborers to the airlock.”
“Does your Excellency object to a mechanical recording of the proceedings?” President Gram asked.
She was shading her eyes with her hand.
“Not at all.” As a number of devices rose into the air above the party, Drill wondered if it were possible to give the Shars detachable Memories. Perhaps human bioengineers could adapt the Memories to the Shar physiology. He asked Memory to make a note of the question so that he could bring it up later.
“Follow me, follow me,” Frog said. The workers who had carried the furniture began to follow the hopping Frog out of the room.
“Your Excellency,” President Gram said, “may I have the honor of presenting to you the other members of my delegation?”
There were six in all, with titles like Secretary of Syncopated Speech and Special Executive for External Coherence. There was also a Minister for the Dissemination of Convincing Lies, whose title Drill suspected was somehow mistranslated, and an Opposite Secretary-General for the Genocidal Eradication of Alien Aggressors, at whom Drill looked with more than a little interest. The Opposite Secretary-General was named Vang, and was small even for a Shar. He seemed to wrinkle his nose more than the others. The Special Executive for External Coherence, whose name was Cup, seemed a bit piebald, patches of white skin showing through the golden fur covering his shoulders, arms, and head.
He is elderly, said Memory.
That’s what I thought.
“Down, Slab,” Drill said. He leaned back against the creature and began to move to a more relaxed position.
He looked at the Shars and smiled. Fur ruffled on shoulders and necks. “Shall we make peace now?” he asked.
“We would like to clarify something you said earlier,” President Gram said. “You said that you were the only, ah, conscious entity on the ship. That you were the only member of the human delegation. Was that translated correctly?”
“Why, yes,” Drill said. “Why would more than one diplomat be necessary?”
The Shars looked at each other. The Special Executive for External Coherence spoke cautiously.
“You will not be needing to consult with your superiors? You have full authority from your government?”
Drill beamed at them. “We humans do not have a government, of course,” he said. “But I am a diplomat with the appropriate Memory and training. There is no problem that I can foresee.”
“Please let me understand, your Excellency,” Cup said. He was leaning forward, his small eyes watering. “I am elderly and may be slow in comprehending the situation. But if you have no government, who accredited you with this mission?”
“I am a diplomat. It is my specialty. No accreditation is necessary. The human race will accept my judgment on any matter of negotiation, as they would accept the judgment of any specialist in his area of expertise.”
“But why you? As an individual?”
Drill shrugged massively. “I was part of the nearest diplomatic enclave, and the individual without any other tasks at the moment.” He looked at each of the delegation in turn. “I am incredibly happy to have this chance, honorable delegates,” he said. “The vast majority of human diplomats never have the chance to speak to another species. Usually we mediate only in conflicts of interest between the various groups of human specialties.
“But the human species will abide by your decisions?”
“Of course.” Drill was surprised at the Shar’s persistence. “Why wouldn’t they?”
Cup settled back in his chair. His ears were down. There was a short silence.
“We have an opening statement prepared,” President Gram said. “I would like to enter it into our record, if I may. Or would your Excellency prefer to go first?”
“I have no opening statement,” Drill said. “Please go ahead.”
Cup and the President exchanged glances. President Gram took a deep breath and began.
Long. Memory said. Very long.
The opening statement seemed very much like the address President Gram had been delivering to the crowd, the same hypnotic rhythms, more or less the same content. The rest of the delegation made muted
responses. Drill drowsed through it, enjoying it as music.
“Thank you, Honorable President,” he said afterwards. “That was very nice.”
“We would like to propose an agenda for the conference,” Gram said. “First, to resolve the matter of the cease-fire and its provisions for an ending to hostilities. Second, the establishment of a secure border between our two species, guaranteeing both species room for expression. Third, the establishment of trade and visitation agreements. Fourth, the matter of reparations, payments, and return of lost territory.”
Drill nodded. “I believe,” he said, “that resolution of the second through fourth points will come about as a result of an understanding reached on the first. That is, once the cease-fire is settled, that resolution will imply a settlement of the rest of the situation.”
“You accept the agenda?”
“If you like. It doesn’t matter.”
Ears pricked forward, then back. “So you accept that our initial discussions will consist of formalizing the disengagement of our forces?”
“Certainly. Of course I have no way of knowing what forces you have committed. We humans have committed none.”
The Shars were still for a long time. “Your species attacked our planets, Ambassador. Without warning, without making yourselves known to us.” Gram’s tone was unusually flat. Perhaps, Drill thought, she was attempting to conceal great emotion.
“Yes,” Drill said. “But those were not our military formations. Your species were contacted only by our terraforming Ships. They did not attack your people, as such— they were only peripherally aware of your existence. Their function was merely to seed the planets with lifeforms favorable to human existence. Unfortunately for your people, part of the function of these lifeforms is to destroy the native life of the planet.”
The Shars conferred with one another. The Opposite Secretary-General seemed particularly vehement.
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