Dragonstar Destiny

by David Bischoff

  eventhorizonpg.com

  A WAILING SOUND pierced Kii’s cold-sleep dreams.

  Servomechanisms were triggered and slowly brought him to consciousness. The sound of the klaxon initially seemed distant, both in time and space, but gradually its urgent sound became more real, more immediate, and his mind began to clear, to grasp the significance of its message.

  It is time! thought Kii as he fought against the effects of the eons-long hibernation.

  Slowly the remote tensors were warming him, reviving him. How long have I slept? Soon, tactile sensation would be returning to his limbs, his claws, and he attempted to move in the chamber before he was able. He could not stop himself from pressing against the webbed restraints. There was an anxiety, an excitement, boiling in him.

  The Returning! A new era in the making!

  Summoning up his resolve, he initiated the age-old exercise of zir—deep, steady breathing, dilating his nostrils, keeping his jaws clamped shut. He did this to rid his mind of erratic thoughts, of impulsive, nonproductive thinking. There was nothing to do but wait until the automatic mechanisms which monitored his life-forces were satisfied with stable readings. Only then would the machines free him from his self-imposed prison.

  Finally the alarm lapsed into silence. The webbing dissolved, releasing Kii from his coffin-like enclosure. Still, he moved cautiously, because he was very old, very weak In contrast to the electric, scintillant activity of his mind, Kii’s body responded with a glacial slowness. Kii stepped down and carefully balanced himself on his thick legs. It was difficult to fight off the dizziness, and he knew that he would require an “assistor”—a motorized exoskeleton—to move about the lab-cell.

  Kii sighed and lashed his tongue in the air as he climbed into the assistor, feeling its sensors come to life and begin monitoring his kinetic movements and responses. Each time he moved, the power-assisted exoskeleton would move with him, effectively amplifying his strength and ease of mobility. The amplification was an odd sensation, and required a period of adjustment. Kii took several experimental steps around the cell, anxious to inspect his instruments, but knowing that he must not injure himself.

  The thought suddenly struck him. that on the entire planet, only Kii was conscious, awake, sentient. It was an oddly frightening proposition to think that the fate of your whole species most likely would depend upon what you did in the next several time units. But Kii did not like to think in such dramatic terms. More simply, he had a few simple tasks to perform. He was no one special, really. His genotype had selected him to be the one awakened. When all was confirmed, he would awaken the others.

  That had been the plan.

  With confidence, he exited the cryogenic chamber, entering a featureless corridor comprised of dull metallic walls and ceiling. The floor was carpeted in a thick, fibrous synthetic which afforded a firm, yet comfortable purchase for Kii’s splayed, clawed feet. Looking down the corridor, Kii calmly observed that it continued to the convergence point of perspective. It appeared to be endless, and after a fashion, it was indeed.

  As Kii moved along the metallic passage, he contemplated his location in the vast crisscrossing network of corridors, shafts, and cells. The entire planet had been artificially enclosed, burrowed, and re-formed to assume the shape and function of a gigantic hive. It was an impossibly large data bank, a repository, a library world. Each hive-cell resembled a separate neuron, each corridor the connecting nerve-pathways, forming a planetary gestalt—a quiescent, nonorganic brain brimming over with data and potential.

  With each step Kii gained confidence in his use of the assistor. Although countless eras may have passed, subjectively he was unaware of the occurrence. The cold-sleep had kept him in a timeless void, and he wondered if death was any different from that seemingly endless state. But there would be time enough for death, he thought. Right now, he was about the business of life!

  New life, thought Kii. For we are the creators, the progenitors, and once again our greatest dreams are reaching fruition!

  The thought filled him with a gladness and a pride that warmed his very bones. Surely there was no better genotype than his ... to be a Planner was to be the most noble of your species!

  With renewed confidence, he moved quickly down the corridor, letting the powered exoskeleton do all the work. Kii passed through the featureless maze of interconnecting corridors as though following the demands of an ancient instinct. He arrived at the entrance to another lab-cell, placed his foreclaw against the entry grid, and watched the field dissipate, allowing him to pass through.

  He moved quickly to a interface console and plugged himself into the semiorganic computer by means of a bioneered coupling on the back of his neck, just below his brain stem. There was an icy tingle beside his skull as the interface was activated, and suddenly Kii was informed of all that had transpired.

  Initially he was shocked to discover how much time had passed: so many millions of time units! Could it be possible that there had been so many failures? Apparently. Otherwise he and the rest of the Planners would not have slept for such a long time.

  Nevertheless, he thought with a great, pleasant expansion of his nostrils, the signal had been received and the response had been triggered. A Returning! Proof again that the plan was as inexorable as the great turning wheels of the planets about their suns.

  His warm thoughts were abruptly interrupted by new data.

  Impossible! thought Kii. And yet the information which flowed into him was irrefutable. Remote servos were starting up—mechanisms which were somehow beyond the interface’s sphere of control. Kii pinpointed the location of the renegade devices and was shocked to discover that an entire cold-sleep chamber was being warmed.

  This should not be happening, he thought, as he videoed the relevant lab-cell.

  The scene filled his mind like a movie screen. He watched an entire wall of cryogenic tanks begin to open. The webbing in all of them was starting to dissolve, revealing the now-awakening occupants.

  But this was not part of the plan! It was far too early to awaken the others, and Kii could not understand what could have gone wrong or why this was happening.

  There was nothing to do but continue to watch the chamber by means of the remote video. The last of the webbing dissolved from the tanks in the forefront of the scene, and Kii saw with a growing horror what was being awakened.

  Turning away from the console, he attempted to secure the control-cell. Interfacing with the emergency defense net, Kii felt blocked at every level, stymied. Another force had tampered with the network—there could be no other plausible explanation. Fighting a wave of panic and sense of impending failure, he continued to search the network for a solution, a means of breaking through the patches and bridges which had been jimmied into the system.

  Suddenly behind him there was the sound of two energy fields in flux—the air crackled and sizzled.

  Turning, Kii saw the barrier-field to his cell boil away in the final splash of a disruptor weapon. A thin cloak of vapor hung within the threshold of the entrance until it was penetrated by a large, powerfully built figure. Muscles rippled beneath its scaly hide as it stepped forward to regard Kii with flat, pale yellow eyes.

  “Do not move,” said the Mover.

  “How did you do this?” asked Kii. “Why? What do you want?”

  The Mover also wore an assistor, although this one was outfitted with combat options. Weapons bristled from gauntlets which braced each forelimb. The Mover advanced and slapped Kii across his lower jaw. The pain spread like white heat up the side of his skull.

  “Silence!’” sai
d the Mover. More of his genotype poured into the control-cell, all looking as formidable as the first. “We were planted to oversee your Awakening. We must contact our Brethren of this New Time for orders.”

  Kii gestured his assent and understanding. There was a numbness in his jaw now, and he realized that the Mover could have killed him just as easily. There was nothing to do but cooperate ... for the moment at least.

  Kii would wait until the ship returned. By then, he was certain that he would be true to his genotype ... that he would have a new plan.

  “THEY’RE WAITING for you, sir,” said the Admins Aide who appeared on Gregor Kolenkhov’s Deskmate monitor.

  “I know they are waiting,” said the large, beefy Russian. He did not bother to look at the screen as he spoke, but continued to pace back and forth within his private office. “Tell them I will be coming out in several minutes.”

  In Colonel Kemp’s absence, Kolenkhov, as senior member of the Joints Chiefs of Staff at Copernicus Base on Luna, was in charge of all base operations. At present, it was a job he wished belonged to someone else.

  Gregor wondered if Kemp was still alive, if he would ever see the man again.

  After the catastrophe on worldwide holovision, there was no place to hide. The lASA lunar base was being, swamped with media journalists, government agency representatives, and various other political dignitaries all being shuttled up from Earth as quickly as possible. The International Aeronautics and Space Administration had no choice but to allow the whole pack of agency wolves and news jackals into Copernicus Base. After broadcasting the disaster to an audience of more than 4 billion people, the IASA’s ass was in one hell of a crack.

  Now the world was demanding some answers, and Kolenkhov was the jack-in-the-box, the squirrel in the wheel cage, He, would have to face them and answer their questions. It would be a major task, trying to make sense out of the insanity which had been visited upon the IASA ever since the gigantic alien artifact had been discovered.

  Goddammit all! Why could not Colonel Kemp be here to handle this fucking circus?

  Of course, there was no telling where Kemp might be now ... It was one of those things which Kolenkhov tried not to think about.

  Gregor paused in front of the mirror and smoothed down his black hair, combed back and slicked down across his partially bald head. Squaring his shoulders, he assessed himself in his Informal Officer’s jumpsuit. For a man of his age and obvious overweight tendencies, he figured he did not look too bad. He exhaled and shook his head slowly, moving toward the door.

  No sense putting it off any longer, he thought, palming it open.

  He stepped into a corridor and stared into the faces of those who stood waiting to accompany him to the assembly hall. Oscar Rheinhardt, Marcia Bertholde, and an attractive, young female Admins Aide by the name of Fleisher.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Gregor,” said Marcia Bertholde, a tall, graying, no-nonsense woman who looked every one of her fifty years. She had the irritating habit of smoking long, thin cigarettes in public, as if she believed her high rank carried the privilege of making the air rank for others.

  “With the three of you huddled outside my door like a pack of simpering dogs, I would have never guessed!”

  Oscar Rheinhardt tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Now, now ... there’s no sense in getting testy, comrade. We’re all in this mess together, you know.”

  “That may be true, Oscar, but it is I who must talk to these people.”

  “It comes with the territory,” said Bertholde. She dragged on her cigarette, exhaled the smoke in a tight bluish stream.

  Gregor ignored this last crack. To Fleisher he said: “Did you get those notes faxed for me?”

  The aide handed him a folder jammed with a sheaf of papers. “Here you are, sir.”

  Taking the reports and data sheets, Gregor took in a deep breath, exhaled dramatically. “All right,” he said. “Let us get down in the mud with these scavengers.”

  The group walked to the elevators in silence and took the waiting car up to the main concourse of the underground base. Here the corridors were wide and brightly illuminated. There were even occasional skylight shafts which brought in real sunlight from the harsh 336-hour lunar-days. But today, the moon was in its nocturnal phase and no natural light poured in from the light shafts. Bathed only in the artificial glow of the wall panels, Gregor found the passageway dim and full of gloom.

  Approaching the assembly hall, Fleisher guided them down a ramp to a set of doors which opened upon the proscenium. As she palmed open the barrier, Gregor felt the wash of a hundred murmuring conversations inundate him simultaneously. It was like plunging into a quiet glade where the trees and shrubs seemed to vibrate with the susurrous life of a million locusts. As he entered the room, he could feel the collective gaze of his audience focusing upon him, pinning him like a butterfly to a piece of cork. As he approached the speaker’s console, the other Joint Chiefs took seats behind him.

  He looked up, trying to coolly assess his audience of more than three hundred men and women from every conceivable organization and agency, and waited for the inevitable hush to settle upon them. The lenses of cameras, like the multifaceted eyes of giant insects, zoomed in upon him. He cleared his throat as the last murmurs faded away. He could feel their attention drawing a bead on him like a target in cross-hairs.

  From the speaker’s console, Gregor keyed in the mike and loudspeaker, cleared his throat, and started talking. He had tried to come up with a prepared statement, but now found himself (to use one of Kemp’s favorite phrases) “winging it.”

  “Good afternoon, everyone. For any of you who may not know me, I am IASA Colonel Gregor Yurianovich Kolenkhov, senior member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff here at Copernicus Base. I will attempt to make some sense out of the terrible tragedy we have all witnessed within the last thirty-six hours, and will, if possible, answer any questions you might have.” Gregor cleared his throat and signaled for Fleisher to get him a flask of water, wishing that she had the presence of mind to substitute a liter or so of vodka.

  Looking up, he continued: “I have here a prepared report, and I will be happy to present it to you intact. You will also receive copies of the report as you all leave the assembly hall. Or, if you wish, we can forget about the report for now and carry on like a regular press conference. I leave it up to all of you ...”

  Gregor paused and looked off to the right where Fleisher had returned with a flask and small glass. He nodded, and she brought it quickly to the podium, then moved back into the wing of the proscenium. As Kolenkhov poured some of the clear liquid into the glass, then raised it to his lips, he detected the familiar bouquet he had first smelled in his father’s dacha many, many years ago.

  Vodka! Fuck-your-mother, the girl had done it!

  Despite the crowd staring at him, he almost broke into a smile as he threw down several fingers of the crisp, clear burning liquid. Hah! Several of those and he could handle anything! He shot a raised eyebrow and the slightest of grins to Aide Fleisher, who smiled, and then looked shyly down at the floor.

  Looking back to the audience, Gregor spied a man near the back of the stepped bank of seats who was raising his hand.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Ashley Littlejohn from the Smithsonian, Colonel. We are filming this entire presentation, and for the sake of history and posterity and all that sort of thing ... would you mind summarizing the events which have led up to this point in the whole Dragonstar affair?”

  A collective groan rose up from the body of the crowd as Gregor held up his hands for silence. “What? You mean all the events? From the very beginning?”

  Mr. Littlejohn scowled at the crowd, then nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so ...”

  Actually Gregor did not mind this request as much as one might expect. Summarizing the events leading up to this point would at least gi
ve him a chance to “warm up” to the audience, to relax, and to allow the vodka time to do its job.

  “Very well,” he said after a decently dramatic pause. “But I promise you: I will be very brief.”

  Mr. Littlejohn nodded perfunctorily and sat down. There was a low murmur running through the assemblage, which faded away as Gregor began speaking.

  “Seven months ago, the Lunar Observatory on Copernicus Base discovered an alien artifact which became known as the Dragonstar. The artifact was an immense cylindrical ship, more than three hundred twenty- kilometers in length and sixty-five kilometers in diameter. The cylinder rotated on its longitudinal axis once every three hundred sixty seconds. It was moving in it highly stable cometary orbit with a period of two hundred ten years.

  “First visual intercept was made by a survey/prospecting vessel just as it entered the asteroid belt. A boarding party from the IASA Heinlein successfully entered the alien vessel, and discovered the enclosed Mesozoic ecology lining the interior of the cylinder. Lakes, rivers, mountains, plateaus, and valleys perfectly re-created—an exact duplicate of the Earth more than one hundred sixty million years ago. However, the boarding party was not very prepared to deal with the carnivorous dinosaurs which soon attacked them, and only Rebecca Thalberg and Ian Coopersmith survived.”

  Gregor paused for a short sip from his glass. The vodka blazed a new path of confidence through his chest as he continued:

  “A second, specially equipped expedition soon arrived on board the Dragonstar and established a permanent base of operations. Colonel Phineas Kemp headed up the team which intended to attach outrigger impulse engines to the alien vessel, break it free from its comet-like orbit, and ferry it back to the Earth-Moon system where it could be placed in a stable Lagrange Point orbit. While this operation was being completed, Kemp organized a search party through the Mesozoic Preserve to find Thalberg and Coopersmith.

  “Meanwhile, these same two survivors trekked across the hostile terrain until they discovered the equivalent of the Great Wall of China ringing the interior of the cylinder, effectively isolating the last forty klicks of environment before it abutted against the flat end of the enclosure. Beyond this artificially constructed barrier lay the civilization of a species dubbed the Saurians by Coopersmith arid Thalberg. The creatures were a species of bipedal dinosaur, which evolved to intelligence during the last fifty million years within the sealed universe of the ship. The Saurian technology was based partly on biological as well as mechanical innovations, and operated roughly on a level equivalent to eighteenth-century Earth.