The Dinosaur Chronicles

by Erhardt, Joseph

  “But, just as twenty years ago your appetite for power brought you under the influence of the wrong people, your appetite for power has evidently continued—and brought you to this meeting. So I get to liberate you as well.”

  Skovar turned to The Progenitor. “Yes, the bars are silver-plated steel. There are silverized plates in the walls, in the ceiling, under the floor. And within the entry doors, which have so puzzled some of you. You can’t get out.”

  The Progenitor snarled. “Neither will you!”

  Skovar shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I had intended to escape, if possible. But it’s not, and for an old man that’s not a great loss. But there’s more. Did you notice the ornate but dull gray moulding along the edges of the ceiling?”

  Heads turned and looked.

  “It’s made of magnesium, per my order. When you’re an eccentric with funds to spend, you can get most anything built. And the coffee makers in the corners have, in addition to coffee, also been quietly dispensing oxygen from generators hidden in their bases. And lastly, when I push this second button here”—Skovar held up the control—“an electrical current will set the magnesium afire. The results should be—spectacular.”

  The Progenitor winced. It was a small wince, but Skovar noticed it even if no one else had. As quickly, the caped figure recovered his composure. He lifted one arm, looked Skovar in the eyes and said, “Listen to me, Mortal!”

  The power of his words knocked Skovar back, and he stumbled against a table. He choked, fighting for air. But he held on to the control.

  The Progenitor sprang to the end of the table.

  “Hear me now, Mortal!”

  Skovar fought to blink, and the hulking figure of The Progenitor shifted slightly in his vision—and then Skovar could breathe once more. “It won’t work, Old One. I’m wearing polarizing contact lenses and earplugs that filter out all but a selection of frequencies. Your efforts to entrance me have failed. Magic, in the course of the decades, may grow in strength and intensity, but its essential nature remains unchanged. Technology, however, evolves and adapts, and it has now reached the stage where, soon, all of your kind shall face extinction. To paraphrase an old saying, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is superior to magic!’”

  The assembly shook its fists and roared its denial. It glared at Skovar with one mind, one thought, one hatred. Fangs unsheathed, and claws unfurled. Skovar moved his thumb over the second button.

  Like wolves, they descended on him. But not before he had pressed the button, and not before the conflagration had begun.

  Afterword

  One of Arthur C. Clarke’s three famous laws (look them up!) is, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

  I’ve always wanted to put a twist on that.

  Now I have.

  Letter of the Law

  I followed the gurney as it was pushed down the hall. The doctors and nurses rolled it along, but not fast enough to suit me. They didn’t care. But if you work for the government, for the people’s money, you should always do the best you can. They’d forgotten that. I hadn’t. Besides, doing your best obligates people to you. It gives you power, juice, influence.

  But I didn’t say anything. Kept my yap shut. Hooking him up would take just a minute, and there were two minutes left before Potter would suffer permanent brain damage from lack of oxygen.

  At the entry to the Resuscitation Room there’s a little lip where the broken tiles of the hallway meet the broken tiles of the refurbished dispensary. They shoved the gurney across the lip with a significant hiccup, not caring at all about their cargo. They might as well have been rolling a six-foot salami.

  I gritted my teeth. Didn’t they have any pride? I mean, you couldn’t even read their name tags, the way they wore them, unless you really looked. The older doctor hid his halfway under a lapel; the younger doctor partway into his armpit. Both nurses looked like they’d taken a scouring pad to theirs, to lighten up the lettering to the point of illegibility.

  I didn’t care about their names anyway. To me, Potter was the only important name, and I was there to see that it didn’t wind up on a death certificate.

  The younger doctor, an intern with shaggy locks stuffed under a green surgeon’s cap, attached the vital-signs sensors to Potter’s body and wedged the cardiopulmonary stimulator against the base of his sternum. The device forced heart and lung contractions through focused magnetic pulses. It would keep Potter going until true resuscitation was achieved.

  The older doc checked the placement of the cup-sized stimulator and flipped a switch. Potter’s ribs began to rise and fall. Old Doc then checked the vital-signs monitor on the wall, using the opportunity to send me an unsolicited dirty look.

  Hey, you sign up as a gov med provider and you get the occasional lousy job. You take the bad with the good, the grim with the gracious. It wasn’t my fault he opted to work for the state.

  “We’ve got full CP support,” Old Doc announced, his words flat and cold. “Inject 10 cc’s lazarol.”

  Of the two nurses, one had amber-colored hair and filled out her uniform in all the right spots—a condition my dad used to call “Easy on the Eyes.” The other was tall, big-boned and looked like she’d worked as a bouncer in one of the city’s no-star nightclubs.

  On entering the Resus Room, the tall nurse had filled a syringe from a small brown bottle she’d taken from the medicine cooler. Now she muscled her frame to the side of the patient and jabbed the syringe into Potter’s arm, directly into the vein on the inside of his elbow.

  My eyes went to the beeping monitor. The heart signal, controlled by the stimulator, looked jagged, artificial. Once Potter started beating and breathing on his own, the device would drop out automatically and the smoother rhythm of a regular heartbeat would replace the signal on the monitor. But it wasn’t happening.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice matter-of-fact.

  Young Doc shook his head. “I don’t understand. We hardly ever have problems with this.” He too, was eyeing the monitor.

  “We’ll try another 10 cc’s,” Old Doc said, failing to keep the grumpiness from his voice.

  Big Nurse jabbed another needle into the patient. Another thirty seconds passed, and Potter was still only an animated corpse.

  Old Doc sighed, “That’s it, then. No luck, except for the patient.”

  “Just a second,” I cut in. “How about 10 cc’s from another bottle? We could have a bad batch here.” Accidentally or on purpose, I added silently.

  Young Doc, whose back was to me, turned my way. He blinked behind his glasses, then turned back to the physician-in-charge. “It’s an idea. I’ve never seen 20 cc’s fail before.”

  Old Doc jerked his head up like someone had slapped him. His cheeks puffed under his mask and his brow flamed. I could tell he took the suggestion as nothing less than bald-faced insubordination, and I thought he was going to have a stroke right on the spot. But it was a spot he was in, all right, and he knew it. He sucked in his breath and growled, “All right! Nurse Jenkins, 10 cc’s—from a new bottle!”

  Big Nurse started to trash the original vial, but I walked over and took it from her hand. I heard her gasp, and she must have worn a look of astonishment under her mask, but I was busy fishing an envelope from my jacket. I stuffed the vial into the envelope, licked and sealed the flap, then took a pen and wrote my name and the date across one half of the flap.

  The only sounds in the room were the beeping of the monitor, six shallow breaths and the scratching of my pen. I then handed the pen to the tall nurse. “Sign your name across the other flap, please.”

  “I haven’t done anything!” she protested, in a voice far higher than I’d expected.

  “Chain of evidence, Miss,” I told her. “This vial might have been tampered with. You got it from the ‘frigerator and gave it to me. That’s all this shows. Now hurry it up, please. Patient’s waiting.” Potter could, in fact, be kep
t on the artificial life support for twenty minutes or so before more mechanical means, like a heart-lung machine, was required. But no heart-lung machine stood in the room and “more mechanical means” didn’t apply to cases like Potter’s.

  Big Nurse took the pen and scribbled a shaky signature across the vellum. I thanked her, put the pen and envelope back into my pockets, and retreated to my post at the side of the action.

  The Easy on the Eyes nurse avoided my own as she passed me and opened the supply fridge a second time. So she was Nurse Jenkins. I’d have to remember that and get her number from the roster. Maybe she’d be free for lunch one day.

  Easy Eyes found another sealed brown bottle, tore off the wrapper and prepped a third shot. This she squirted into Potter’s other arm.

  Half a minute later, the stimulator dropped out as Potter’s heart started beating. But instead of the deep, even pulse expected, it beat weakly and rapidly.

  Far too rapidly.

  Alarm indicators flashed “Fibrillation,” and a counter showed a fantastic rate. I’m not one for rough language, but I cursed just the same.

  Young Doc was the first to respond. He pushed the stimulator aside, pressed a pair of defib paddles to Potter’s chest and yelled, “Clear!”

  The other members of the crew stepped back, and Potter jumped six inches off the gurney as the jolt ran through his body. The signal on the monitor was unchanged. Young Doc reached for a console and twisted a dial.

  “This is disgusting!” Big Nurse announced. “After what he’s been through—”

  “Clear!” Young Doc called out, and again Potter flew off the stretcher.

  Young Doc pegged the voltage and tried several more times, but Potter’s heart continued to flutter like a cheap strobe.

  “Enough!” Old Doc said. “We are literally beating a dead horse, and I intend to keep what little self-respect I have left!”

  “No!” I held up my hand. “You’ve got to give this your best efforts. It’s what the law demands!”

  “The situation is pointless! Besides,” Old Doc added snottily, “what more would you have us do?”

  He had me there. I floundered, “T-Try the defibrillator again.”

  “And again and again?” Old Doc laughed bitterly. “My God, what have we come to?”

  Dammit, Potter, don’t drop out on me. “Look,” I said as coldly as I could, “I represent the government here and my opinion about whether best efforts have been applied means a great deal.” I clamped my lips in the stylishly-grim manner I’d seen in old Schwarzenegger movies and let my right hand dangle to the stunner at my side. It wouldn’t hurt to have the doctor think he was dealing with a fanatic. I was running out of ideas and, I’ll admit, getting just a teensie bit desperate. Old Doc shifted his gaze, but Easy Eyes’ eyes got real big.

  Old Doc said, “All right. We’ll try it again, but three more times is the limit! After that, I don’t care what you say! Or do!”

  I nodded assent. Very reluctantly. It was the best I could do.

  Young Doc said, “Clear!” and pressed the defibrillator paddles to Potter’s chest. Again, Potter rose as his abdominal muscles contracted with the applied voltage. But his heart continued the wild jitter that would soon end in utter stillness.

  Moments passed. The intern echoed, “Clear!” and zapped Potter again. No improvement showed on the monitor, and the wrinkles at the corners of Old Doc’s eyes betrayed the smug grin he bore behind his mask.

  Ten seconds later, the intern gave Potter his final jolt.

  For a moment, nothing changed, and Old Doc chuckled his approval. But then the alarm from the vital-signs monitor hesitated, and a second later, stopped.

  After the continuing alarm, the sudden silence, marked only by the modest beeping of the heart monitor, was jarring.

  On the large glass screen, a normal heartbeat—weak, but normal—traveled serenely from left to right.

  Big Nurse mouthed a one-word obscenity. Then she sighed, picked up a jar and slowly applied cream to the burns on Potter’s already-scarred right wrist and left foot.

  —

  I stood my post outside the recovery room. I didn’t really need to, as Potter wasn’t going anywhere and the guard station was just down the hall. But doing your best makes you valuable, and value can be, at times, cashed in to good advantage.

  The bottle of medicine I’d passed along to the Watch Sergeant, who sent it up for analysis. Maybe it was just a bad batch. But if I’d stumbled across sabotage, it would be another feather in my cap, another quid to trade for someone else’s quo.

  Old Doc had been by an hour earlier and he’d found Potter resting easily, doing well. Although Potter was wired to a comm-box that fed signals to the guard station, I was happy to see the med staff take a personal interest. Once Potter was again officially alive, their attitude had changed.

  As the minute hand of the hall clock neared the top of its sweep, Young Doc walked up, nodded to me, and stepped into the room.

  He checked Potter’s pulse, blood pressure and optical reflexes.

  On his way out, I asked, “Still fine?”

  He stopped and looked at me curiously. “Yes-s,” he said slowly. “In a week, he’ll be able to return to the prison infirmary. In another ...”

  Young Doc trailed off. In another week, Potter would be back on Death Row.

  “Don’t feel so broken-up about it,” I said. “This guy’s the Fernwood Butcher. He’s not your ordinary Joe Citizen. He is, frankly, not worth worrying about.”

  Conflicting emotions rippled across the intern’s face. “I’m aware of this, but ...”

  I added, “He slice-and-diced the daughter of a friend of mine.”

  He stared. “Then how the hell did you get this assignment? It’s a conflict of interest!”

  I hesitated. “I cashed in a few favors.”

  I turned away, looking through the open door to the body in the bed, watching as Potter’s chest rose, fell. Getting the Potter assignment had cost me a decade of accumulated favors, but it was worth it.

  Young Doc mumbled something under his breath. I turned back and said, “What?”

  He looked sharply at me. “Six death sentences. The jury gave him six death sentences.”

  “That’s right,” I said, grinning. “Two down, four to go.”

  Afterword

  Yup. Another surprise-ending story. But if you look closely, you’ll find clues scattered throughout. Whether I’ve done the scattering well enough to satisfy you is another question. I hope I have.

  The Practical Meek

  My shrink says I’m depressed. He’s wrong. He also says I’m passive-aggressive. He’s right about that. But at five-seven and 130 pounds, I’m supposed to be active-aggressive?

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a coward. I just like to stay under the radar when someone’s picking a fight.

  Buy me another beer? Thanks.

  But sometimes the fight picks me. Like the time my wife divorced me and split everything 80-20. No guesses who got the 20.

  For a while I tried to make the alimony payments. I took on extra work at the office and the occasional side job to satisfy the settlement. I fell off the wagon, but that’s how I met Benny.

  Benny really was depressed. Over a few weeks and more than a few beers, he told me all about it.

  And over the next few weeks, my job performance went to hell. I got to work late, couldn’t finish my assignments, snarled at my office buddies—all the things that happened to Benny.

  I got fired, lost the apartment and wound up on the street.

  The shrink at the county clinic said I was clinically depressed. He’s wrong, but I already told you that. My social worker got me on disability and got me relief from the alimony.

  So now my greedy little ex has to work for her living.

  That’s passive-aggressive for you.

  Good beer, by the way.

  Oh, living on the street’s not so bad. Not if you have all your marbles.
Course, I gotta stay in character. If you’re depressed, you gotta act depressed. But I act sharp enough to make the other street folk nervous—just a bit—and they leave me alone. And I don’t stay outside every day. There are shelters, but you gotta know which shelters, and which bunks to use, and where the exits are.

  Benny told me all about it.

  Yeah, Benny was a good guy. He taught me how to live on disability and how to hide extra wealth in bus and train lockers.

  Well, if your social worker sees you doing too good, she’ll think you’re ready for job training. So you never wear your best stuff when you go there, or to the shrink. You make the occasional showing at a soup kitchen, or a church preach-n-eat. You don’t shave or shower every day either, but that’s easy.

  So everybody’s got a stash. For emergencies. Usually it’s money, sometimes it’s clothes, often it’s food.

  Of course the money is earned under-the-table. Who wants to tell the government they’re employable?

  Yeah, with the new regs, finding off-the-books work is dicey. But you can accumulate goodies in other ways.

  Stealing? A lot do. I don’t. Been stolen from, so I know how it feels. My niche is dumpster-diving. Benny taught me.

  Of course not. You gotta pick the right dumpster. F’rinstance, you don’t dive in the dumpster behind a restaurant. Very nasty. But diving in one behind a haberdashery or shoe store can get you some nice cast-offs.

  Thanks. I like the jacket, too.

  No, it’s not my best find. My best was a pair of wing-tips I fished from a garbage can over on Heywood. No, I wasn’t diving the can. I was looking for a place to stow my trash. I’m not a litterbug, y’know.

  But there in the can were these wing-tips. Brown, full leather uppers with leather half-soles and rubber heels. Looked brand-new. Figured they must not have fit someone, so they tossed them.

  Well, maybe they lost the receipt for the store and couldn’t exchange ‘em anymore. What do I know?