Dragonstar Destiny

by David Bischoff

  Becky had no interest in the lines of power and the attendant politics which were being drawn up by the very formation of the Ruling Council. She found politics a thundering bore, arid the people who pursued its ramifications to be shallow fools. Not that Mishima was getting into the inherent politics of his position ... moreover, it seemed that he only liked the power because it gave him the chance to pursue his own private interests.

  From what she had seen of Mishima, he did not seem to be an authoritarian type, getting his cookies off by bossing other people around. Rather, he seemed genuinely driven and fascinated like any good scientist should be. He was open and generally cheerful. His intelligence was ever present, shining out from behind his dark, almond-eyes. His Beatles haircut enhanced his “little boy” image even though he was taller than the average man.

  She found herself liking him in spite of her unspoken, practically unthought, decision to call a moratorium on relationships, feelings, emotional entanglements, and all the baggage that went with it. Since Ian Coopersmith’s death several weeks ago, Becky had been trying to cope with the finality of it, the deep sense of loss, the anger and frustration, and the seeming pointlessness of ever allowing oneself to fall in love with anyone.

  And now she could tell that Dr. Takamura was definitely interested in her. Just what she needed right now ...

  Of course Mishima couldn’t possibly know of any of this—and she had no intention of telling him or anyone else how she truly felt. Really, now, who really knew how they truly felt about everything? Here she was sounding like she was getting ready for the convent at the not so terribly old age of thirty-three. Looking over at him, he was grinning to himself, obviously pleased to have received the go-ahead to put together his expedition. He was like a little boy.

  A silent chuckle passed through her mind. There wasn’t one man she’d ever met that did not, at some time or another, remind her of a little boy. Maybe there was a part of all of them which was incapable of growing up. If that was true, then she envied them at least that part of their nature.

  A loud groaning sound interrupted her from her thoughts. It was a low-frequency howl not born in the throat of any living creature.

  The groaning increased in intensity, like the straining sound of wood rafters being twisted away from their support beams in an old house. The sounds echoed and rolled across the landscape like thunder, setting up vibrating resonances beneath their feet. Then just as abruptly, there was silence once again.

  “My God, what was that?” said Becky.

  Takamura had maneuvered the OTV to a halt at the onset of the sounds, and was listening with his head slightly tilted.

  “I’m not certain,” he said. “At first I thought it might be the engines! Changing their status in some way—accelerating, braking, whatever ...”

  “But now you don’t think so?”

  Mishima shook his head. “No, that was a different sound. This was like a ... a groan, a crying out of pain, if you will allow me the metaphor. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

  Becky smiled at his attempt to describe what they had heard. And she nodded because she, too, had felt a straining, almost painful quality in the sound. “Yes, I do,” she said after a pause.

  “Something is putting structural pressure, or some other kind of stress, on the hull,” said Mishima. “That was the sound of metal trying to do things it is not intended to do—such as stretch and bend.”

  He looked up into the cloudy sky. as if to penetrate the murky clouds and coming darkness.

  “Any good ideas?” asked Becky with a tinge of childish hope in her voice. Despite her close association with real, “hard” scientists over the years, Becky, like most people, still half-believed that real scientists could come up with the answers to just about any goddamned question.

  Mishima shrugged. “It could be any number of things. Don’t forget, this ship is very, very old—two hundred million years at the outset, maybe much older. Nothing lasts forever, so maybe it is finally beginning to wear out.”

  “Great timing,” she said. “Just when it decides to take us all for a ride across the galactic rim, it also decides to start falling apart ...!”

  “Now, don’t start quoting me! The last thing we need right now is a panic situation.”

  Becky shook her head and grinned. “We already have a panic situation ... We’re just getting used to it, that’s all.”

  Mishima laughed in spite of himself, then tried to assume a more serious countenance. “My expedition through the bulkhead area might be more fortunate than we could have imagined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If the superstructure of the hull is indeed undergoing severe stress, we can run some tests to check it out.”

  Becky nodded but did not respond, and Mishima fired up the vehicle again. They approached the base of the cliff dwellings called the Priests’ Rookery and climbed down to the red-clay soil. Walking to the face of the rock wall, they entered a staircase which had long ago been cut into the stone. Like an immense fire escape, the staircase scaled the cliff, switching back and forth as it angled from landing to landing, level to level. At each landing, a stone catwalk stretched in both directions, allowing access to hollowed-out interiors in the cliff. These were the dwellings of the priest-caste, the biologically superior subspecies of the Saurians. The higher a priest lived in the Rookery, the higher his social and biological status was perceived by his peers.

  Becky and Mishima were climbing to the highest level to see Thesaurus, one of the oldest, wisest members of his race.

  She remembered first encountering Thesaurus with Ian Coopersmith, back when they had first discovered the Saurian Preserve by simply stumbling out of the jungle and seeing the Barrier. It was the great wall which protected this race of evolved dinosaurs from their more primitive relatives, the wall which Ian eventually died protecting.

  Mishima had wanted to enlist the aid of Thesaurus in handpicking a detachment of Saurian Warriors for the expedition. Since Becky was probably the closest human to the old priest, she had agreed to accompany him for an audience.

  “I must be getting old,” said Mishima as they approached the second-to-the-last landing. “This is going to kill me.”

  “We’re almost there,” she said.

  “Do you think he’ll give us any static?” asked Mishima,

  “I don’t think so. He’s very intelligent. Nobody wants to give any of the Saurians credit because of the way some of the other castes act, and the way they’re treated, but you’ll see.”

  “I hope so.”

  They reached the final landing, more than four hundred meters from the surface. Becky looked over the railing and stepped back as a wave of vertigo crashed over her. Heights usually did not affect her. Maybe it was just her nerves ...

  Thesaurus was awaiting them as they approached the entrance to his dwelling. He was tall and thin, almost fragile in appearance, and his smooth greenish-brown skin was mottled from age and a bout of radiation poisoning. Like all Saurians, his long neck flowed upward from his shoulders to support a reptilian/bird like skull. But his stereoscopic eyes, high forehead, and large brain case were all indicators of sentience. He wore the loosely flowing, bright lemon-yellow robes of the priest-caste, cinctured by a thin waist-high belt.

  He also wore a digital translator which allowed Saurians and humans to communicate. Their language sounded like a series of clicks, barks, and hisses, which were not easily produced by the human throat and tongue. English was equally impossible for the Saurians, and the digital translator would forever be one of the primary ways of the two species to exchange ideas.

  The only hang-up with the translating devices was the inherent delay in all interspecies conversations. But, thought Becky, you could get used to just about anything, and after a while, you didn’t even notice the delay—it became part of the whole
ritual.

  “Greetings, my Rebecca,” said Thesaurus, holding out both hands to touch her own.

  “Hello, Thesaurus. This is one of our scientists, Dr. Takamura. He is here to seek your advice.”

  The Saurian Priest took Mishima’s hand and welcomed him.

  As Becky watched the two of them, she was reminded of how Ian had first tried to talk with Thesaurus, how the always-witty Englishman had given the Priest his funny name as a joke and how it had simply “stuck.” It occurred to her that she’d never actually learned the Priest’s “real” name ...

  “Whatever I can do to help,” said Thesaurus. “Please come in and tell me.”

  They entered the spacious front room, which was filled with odd-shaped pieces of furniture, shelves, and cabinets. The walls were decorated with various woven tapestries and macramé-like “hangings.” Becky also noticed ordinary IASA items such as a canteen, a calculator, a cam-corder, even a jumpsuit insignia. These were also placed on display proudly. It was a warm room, even in its alienness, radiant with the personality of Thesaurus.

  Calmly, but with the deliberate manner of a philosopher, Thesaurus began their conversation with a question about the groaning sounds just heard. Mishima explained his theories about their possible origin, and watched the old Priest as he accepted the information in silence. Becky imagined the concern which must have filled him, but the Saurian did not allow it to manifest itself.

  Briefly then, Takamura outlined his planned expedition, his intentions, and his wish to have a detachment of Saurian Warriors included in the party.

  “It is admirable that you wish to involve my people in the quest for a solution to our plight,” said the Priest. “But I wonder if it is also wise.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Mishima. He was sitting on a wide mushroom-shaped fixture which served as a chair, but did not look at all comfortable. Becky continued to stand by the entrance, watching them.

  Thesaurus flickered his large amber eyes—a gesture which translated as a rough equivalent to a human shrug. “The warrior-caste is ... unpredictable around humans. Visions of the riot and the scent of Warrior blood still linger in their memories. I mean no offense when I tell you that as a group, they still do not really trust humans.”

  “I understand that,” said Mishima. “But perhaps this mission will help foster goodwill between us and their caste.”

  The Saurian clapped his hands once—a gesture meaning agreement. “Yes, that is possibly just so. However, I think it would be best if you also brought one of my own caste along. A Priest among them would be a stabilizing influence, I assure you.”

  Mishima smiled. “Of course! You are most welcome to come with us!”

  “No, I do not ask this for myself.” Thesaurus opened his mouth to awkwardly display a lower jaw full of teeth. It was his attempt to emulate a human smile, which, to Becky at least, gave him an oddly fearsome aspect. He’d never make it as a holovision personality with a look like that. Thesaurus continued: “I am too old for such adventures. I would send one of our younger, stronger caste members.”

  “Very well,” said Mishima. “That will be fine. Now, tell me, please ... do you have any members of the warrior-caste which you might recommend for the mission?”

  The Saurian clapped his hands once. “There is the one Colonel Kemp calls Visigoth. He is one of the caste generals, and is very respected by his men. He has worked very much with the human salvage crews, and it seems likely that he would be agreeable to gather up a band of young fighters.”

  “Good. Very good. You will arrange this for me?”

  “”Yes, of course.” The Saurian paused, tilted his head a bit to the left, and stared at Mishima for a moment before continuing. “Do you really expect any trouble?”

  Mishima shook his head. “Not really, no. But we have learned that we cannot ever expect anything on board this ship ... other than the unexpected.”

  “Just so ... ” said Thesaurus.

  Mishima spent the next few minutes finalizing the details of the mission, and Thesaurus promised him a platoon of four Warriors and a leader. They would join his team at the main gate the following morning.

  Finally Mishima stood and stepped toward Becky, still standing by the entrance. Thesaurus accompanied him and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. The Priest towered above her, and one less familiar with his species might find his posture threatening. But as he looked down at her with a saturnine expression in his eyes, she could sense the concern and sincere friendship in his gaze.

  “Your Ian Coopersmith is still in my thoughts,” he said.

  “Mine, too.” It was all she could manage.

  “It was a strange and beautiful thing he did. As much as my people cannot understand why he did it, they will still remain forever grateful.”

  “Thank you,” she said, fighting back some tears. Damn it!

  How could this utterly alien species touch her so deeply, so quickly? It didn’t seem possible, but it was happening.

  Thesaurus flickered his eyes. She recognized the wistful quality of the Saurian shrug. “It is so difficult for both of us, is it not? My caste has tried to educate our people, and I fear that so few of them truly understand ...”

  “I know,” said Becky.

  “How do you tell that their universe is really a great carriage hurtling through a night so deep, so dark, that it has no end?”

  “You simply tell them,” said Mishima. “Eventually they will understand, But if they cannot do that, then they will at least accept it as a fact.”

  “Or explain it through their myths,” said Thesaurus.

  “Perhaps that may be the best way,” said Becky.

  “It is getting late,” said Mishima. “We should be going back.”

  “Very well. Thank you for the honor of your visit.” The Priest inclined his head in imitation of a bow.

  “Good-bye, Thesaurus. We’ll come see you when we return,” said Becky.

  “With good news, let us hope.”

  “Let us hope,” repeated Mishima.

  * * *

  Takamura had not spoken for several minutes as he maneuvered the OTV down a dimly lit path toward the boulevard. The domes and spires of Saurian architecture hunched and squatted in deep shadows on either side of them. The city was settling in for a quiet night, punctuated only by the whine of a single methane-turbine engine. He eased the machine into the field next to the tents of the Enclave and killed the power.

  “Want to stop by my tent for some coffee?” he asked softly, not looking at her.

  She stared past him, then quickly around the dark field where the shadowed hulk of a partially assembled ornithopter lay amid scattered scavenger parts.

  “Well?”

  “Oh,” she said, chewing on her lips. “I don’t know. I’m awfully tired.”

  She wasn’t ready for this. She really wasn’t. Not now. Not so soon ...

  But what was she waiting for? It was funny how you had to remind yourself that there might not be any more tomorrows, that you could, as Ian used to say, wake up tomorrow morning and find yourself dead.

  “I just want to talk to you. I need to talk to someone once in a while,” said Mishima.

  “Well...” In the mood she suddenly found herself in, it wasn’t going to take much persuading.

  “Look, I won’t try anything ...” Mishima’s eyes were big and pleading.

  She smiled. “You won’t? What’re you trying to do—scare me off?”

  He laughed. “I take that to mean yes, you will come?”

  She reached out and touched his smooth cheek, looked into his eyes. “For coffee, yes. And anything else that might pop up ...”

  KATE LAY in her cot, listening in the darkness. She could hear her tent-mate, Joyce Kinsey, stirring in her sleep. But there was another sound.

 
The groaning, twisting noise resonated in Kate Ennis’s head, waking her from a deep, dreamless sleep. Its subsonic vibrations seemed to touch the marrow in her bones, and yet it was dull and loud like distant thunder, echoing through the ship’s interior.

  It was an awful sound, like the creaking wood in an old sailing ship, the windswept rafter of an old house. The lower-caste Saurians were terrified by the “ship-quakes” as they were already being called, and Kate was having no success in quieting their fears. Some of the merchant-caste members were becoming surly. They were circulating a familiar prejudice among themselves: that their world had been nothing but turmoil since the arrival of the humans, that perhaps the Saurians would be better off without the humans around.

  Kate knew there was more than a little truth in that sentiment. She thought of the Hawaiians several decades after the Europeans had found them: talk about Paradise Lost ... ! We were doing the same kinds of destructive things to the Saurians, even if there was no one person or policy to actually blame. Maybe it was an unwritten law that when two cultures first meet, the more primitive is going to have to suffer the most.

  “What was that?” asked Joyce sleepily. Kate could hear her sitting up in her sleeping pouch, fumbling for her cigarette pack.

  “Another ’quake,” said Kate, looking over to see the flare of the self-lighting Virginia Slim as Joyce brought it to her lips.

  Leaning out to the small crate which served as a nightstand, Kate turned on a power-cell lamp, and the shadows ran off into the corners.

  “Jesus! Why didn’t you warn me you were doing that?” Joyce chuckled in mock-anger.

  “Sorry ... I figured as long as we were up and we were talking, maybe we should have some light.’”

  “Those noises scare me,” said Joyce. “It’s like the whole ship could be twisting apart.”