DS02 Night of the Dragonstar

by David Bischoff

  Not very good.

  And so good old Long Jack had smiled and jumped up and told the colonel that he couldn’t wait to get a look at those wonderful dinosaurs firsthand.

  And they had just seen their first one.

  Ole Long Jack wasn’t so senile that he hadn’t noticed the lead vehicle swinging around to avoid a big meat-eater, then take a few potshots at the hideous son of a bitch. Christ, those things gave him the creeps. Just the thought of being picked up in those strong, purposeful little forelimbs, being scrutinized by one of its dumb saucery eyes, and then being popped whole, a light snack, into the stinking, fetid maw ...

  It was enough to make him want to vomit.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Neville?” asked his nurse, who was monitoring his LM readouts.

  “What? Of course I’m not all right. We’re riding through the most hostile environment the Earth has ever seen, and you’re asking me such a question. Why couldn’t I just slip into a nice, comfortable, schizophrenic episode, be totally oblivious to this whole horrible trip.”

  Ms. Wilkins chuckled. “Oh, Doctor. I think you’ve got the wrong spirit of the whole thing. Try thinking of it as a trip to an amusement park or something like that.”

  “There’s nothing amusing about this whole mess. If I didn’t have this stupid image to uphold, I would never have consented to such a thing. Oh, if old John Campbell could see me now! He’d choke on one of those cigarettes of his.”

  His nurse laughed as he forced himself to look back out the viewing port. The yellow and orange striped bastard had vanished after they’d taken a few shots at it, but old Long Jack didn’t trust the foul-smelling suckers—no way. It was probably skulking along in the bushes right next to their caravan, just waiting until they stopped so it could jump out and scarf somebody for lunch. Jesus, they were disgusting.

  He watched for any sign of it, but nothing appeared as the caravan crested the rise and fanned out across a high, wide plateau. Rocks and primitive trees dotted the landscape like small oases in the middle of a desert, but there was no sign of the party crasher in the striped suit. Old Long Jack would continue to keep an eye peeled, to remain as paranoid as possible, yessir.

  * * *

  Mikaela touched his arm, indicating that the caravan had reached an ideal spot for the shoot, and Kemp signaled his driver to halt. The rest of the OTV sparked in a formation reminiscent of the wagon trains of the American Old West, and the crews started jumping out and setting up their gear.

  “All right,” Phineas said, looking at Mikaela. “Let’s get this over with. You’re going to be in the first scene with Williamson, aren’t you?”

  She smiled and climbed up to the entrance hatch, then flashed her beautiful eyes upon him. “Why, Phineas, can’t you tell? When was the last time I went out into the jungle with my makeup on?”

  He just smiled as he watched her leave the vehicle and join the members of the film crew who were assembling around director Les Lasky and his narrator/interviewer for the project, the famous British stage actor Alistair Williamson.

  Jumping down, Phineas sought out Neville. He wanted to keep the old guy by his side, and therefore out of harm’s immediate way. He was eager to hear the famous writer’s impressions of the magnificent alien ship and its interior world.

  “Jacobs,” he said to the closest guard. “Get the perimeter-watch set up and have somebody bring Dr. Neville up here.”

  The IASA soldier saluted and moved off. Phineas watched the production get rolling. Lasky was quick and efficient, and he knew what he wanted from all his people. He was easy to understand, and he was sure to have everyone prepared before he started the cameras rolling. He was a consummate pro, and the documentary was going to have a very polished, very crisp feel to it.

  “Colonel,” a voice crackled in Phineas’s helmet mike, “this is Martino. I’ve got a blip coming this way. Land based, pretty good sized. Might be our friend from before. Whatever it is, it just cleared the rise.”

  “All right, Sergeant, I copy that. Keep me posted.” Kemp directed a team of marksmen to fan out beyond the perimeter watch and head off whatever it was that was homing in on them. Overhead, a squadron of Pterodactyls glided about, watching the strange activities below, staying in the area like a flight of vultures waiting for a kill.

  “Okay, Colonel, we have a visual ... it’s the same guy we ran into before. Coming this way.”

  Phineas flipped on the PA in the OTV and alerted the film crew, who had already begun filming Alistair Williamson interviewing Becky and Ian. Instantly their cameras swung around and picked up the IASA forces fanning out against the approaching carnivore. Kemp knew this was going to make great footage for the broadcast, full of danger and immediacy. Ian Coopersmith, true to his reputation, cast off the role of film star in an instant, reaching for an automatic weapon and joining in the deployment of troops. Becky, also a veteran of the Mesozoic way of life and death, decided to move off with the film crew behind the OTVs.

  Looking across the expanse of the plateau, Kemp could see the creature closing in. It jogged along with a long-legged stride, a fearless advance punctuated by much swinging of its large head and a vicious snapping of its jaws.

  Neville closed in on Phineas with a look of abject panic on his face. He moved with surprising agility, despite the extra baggage of dangling LM tubes and wires. His nurse scrambled behind, carrying his porta-pak, in a desperate effort to catch up with her charge.

  “Don’t you think you should be shooting that son of a bitch?” Neville asked.

  Phineas reached out to give the old writer support as he practically collapsed into his arms. The alarm beepers on the porta-pak LM were all clamoring for attention, joining together in a weird, atonal, medical/ musical composition. “Take it easy, Dr. Neville. It’s going to be all right. My men have got everything under control.”

  “Disgusting creature,” Neville muttered.

  “Dr. Neville,” his nurse said between gasps. “Please, you shouldn’t get yourself so excited.”

  “Vile beast!” Neville was beginning to exhibit flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth.

  “Please, Doctor,” Nurse Wilkins cried. “If you don’t calm down, you’re going to kill yourself.”

  “Me kill myself? What about that thirty-ton monster? He looks like he could do a very nice job, thank you.”

  In spite of the imminent danger, Phineas could barely keep from smiling at the old man. He tried to nod sternly and directed his attention toward the perimeter. Mikaela had moved alongside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  The marksmen waited until the predator had drawn close enough to be caught in a lethal cross fire. In order to employ this tactic they had allowed the beast to push dangerously close to the line of OTVs that formed a wagon-train barrier around the film crew, several of whom had clambered up on the vehicles to record the advance of the beast.

  It moved with a crazed urgency, jaws snapping and slavering in anticipation of its imagined meal. Its large hind claws tore great divots of earth from beneath it, marking its trail toward the human position. Overhead, as though sensing the coming carnage, Pterodactyls wheeled and waited.

  When the marksmen opened fire, their hollow-point and jellied-nitro-filled rounds ripped into the bright flesh of the dinosaur, rippling the folds of scaly skin like water in the wind. The first volley of shells staggered the creature, stopping it in mid-stride and causing it to stumble off to the left. Only an instinctive slash of its heavy tail kept it from falling to the earth. Reeling and weaving like a wounded prizefighter, the animal struggled to regain its balance.

  Finally, as both splayed, three-toed claws gained equal purchase in the hard earth, it threw back its head and let loose a high-pitched cry of pain and unrestrained fury. Opening its yellow eyes even wider, it selected the closest OTV as its prey and forced itself forward, lumbering ahead on dru
nken legs.

  The marksmen unleashed a second volley, more violent than the first. A locust-swarm of slugs assaulted the beast, shredding its neck into ribbons, exploding its skull, turning its primitive nervous system into useless jelly. The beast recoiled from this vicious attack, standing perfectly upright, rigid as though at attention, overwhelmed by the systematic, death-dealing shock of the attack.

  It opened its mouth to cry one final time, but only a feeble squeaking sound emerged as the great bellow-lungs collapsed. It hung motionless for a moment before toppling, with unbelievable slowness, to the hard-packed dirt of the plateau. Great clouds of dust and dirt rose up around the carcass, and almost immediately insects materialized out of the air to begin their ritual buzzing about the bleeding hulk of meat.

  “Good Christ!” whispered Neville in a soft, hoarse voice. He looked at the corpse of the beast, which convulsed one more time. The old writer appeared ready to vomit. He moved several feet from the group and retched.

  Kemp fingered his helmet mike and cleared his throat. “Good shooting, Martino. Nice work.”

  Mikaela looked up at him with an expression of urgency creasing her sensuously angled face. “Phineas, I hate to spoil your fun, but we’d better get out of here right away.”

  He knew she was referring to the instant response of the environment to the smell of blood and death. Within minutes scavengers of all shapes and sizes would be flocking to their position—all whipped into a feeding frenzy.

  “You’re right. Quietly inform Lasky and his crew. I’ll get my men moving right away.” Phineas barked orders into his helmet mike, and everyone started scrambling back into the safety of the OTVs. Even as they moved, clouds of dust could be seen across the plateau—creatures running quickly across the hard, dry earth.

  Mikaela helped Nurse Wilkins with Dr. Neville, whose LM porta-pak was playing a veritable symphony of warning bells and alarm beepers. The old man was walking with a pronounced wobble as he headed back to his vehicle.

  “Shoot that bastard,” he cried out. “Watch out, you bugger!”

  Mikaela helped him into his vehicle and rushed back to where Phineas stood watching the rest of the crew. Coopersmith, standing several vehicles down the line, was supervising the rapid evacuation, and Phineas knew that everything was well in hand. “Let’s move out,” he said grimly, and helped her aboard.

  As the caravan scurried away, the hordes of scavengers descended on the still warm flesh of the dead dinosaur. Mikaela watched the action from the viewing port until it dwindled from view.

  “It’s a hell of a way to live, isn’t it?” Phineas joked.

  “That’s not funny,” Mikaela said.

  “I was just trying to relieve some tension. Sorry.”

  “That was another one of the mutants, Phineas. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but I saw the sores. If we’d been able to cut him open, we would have found him laced through with tumors.”

  “As soon as we finish this project, we’ll get onto the problem with a full-scale program,” Phineas said.

  “I just hope you’re not too late.”

  “I’ve already had this conversation with Bob Jakes,” Phineas said. “I am quite aware of the consequences.”

  “Well, that’s pretty interesting, because I don’t think any of the rest of us are.”

  “Hey, take it easy. You know what I mean?”

  Mikaela looked at him warily. “No, I’m not sure I do, Phineas. I know that you usually do what you want, that you normally get your own way, but I’m not sure you realize what your way might mean this time around.”

  “The documentary will be finished tomorrow,” he said. “That is, assuming that you can find us a suitable replacement location for today’s shots instead of trying to pick an argument with me.”

  Mikaela sighed audibly. “All right, but I’m not finished with you yet.” Mikaela called up a map on the console screen and scrolled through some coordinates in a quick search for locations.

  “My dear,” Phineas said, running his hand down the small of her back to fondle her buttocks, “I hope you’re never finished with me.”

  GREGOR KOLENKHOV, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at Copernicus Base, was seated in the communications bridge of the IASA lunar installation. Banks of monitors and screens displayed information of every conceivable type, but the screen that the portly Russian watched was a simple, portable holovision. The HV was tuned to World Media’s sat-channel 80 and the last round of preliminary commercials before the initial segment of the grossly hyped documentary on the Dragonstar began.

  “Just about ready?” asked Kolenkhov’s staff communications officer, Major Peter Altermann.

  “Yes,” Gregor said. “After a veritable barrage of advertisements, however.”

  The two men watched as the projection dimmed to gray, then burst forth with colorful computer-generated three-dimensional images. Letters from the swirling chaos of a spiral galaxy, spelling out the program title:

  THE DAY OF THE DRAGONSTAR

  A great orchestral sound track enhanced the majesty and importance of the event everyone was about to see. Over this, the familiar voice of World Media’s most popular narrator, Alistair Williamson, boomed the introduction:

  “Humankind, having taken the first precarious steps away from the safety of its home world, has encountered what may arguably be called the most important discovery in the history of the human race—the alien vessel known as the Dragonstar.

  Tonight you will discover for yourselves the wonder and the awe of what has been called “the largest artificially constructed device in the known universe.” Its dimensions are ...”

  Major Altermann turned and winced at his superior.

  “Geez, Dr. Kolenkhov, looks like they’re going to milk this for all it’s worth.”

  “Yes, well, it is a fantastic event in our history, but I sincerely hope that the crass, insensitive minds of free enterprise do not cheapen its glory too much.” Gregor laughed heartily and fumbled one of his dark, rich Turkish cigarettes from his pack.

  “Well, this is really Colonel Kemp’s baby, from what I hear,” the major said, his East Texas accent curling and twanging every word.

  “Most certainly,” Gregor said, lighting his cigarette with his customary flourish. “It was a labor of love, as I understand it. We didn’t see much of him around here while they were filming it, that was for sure.”

  “Yeah,” the major said. “Well, they’ve been promising one hell of a show. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, huh?”

  * * *

  “Aren’t you coming down to watch the live segment?” A voice intruded upon the thoughts of Mishima Takamura, and he turned to find the round, wrinkled face and gray eyes of Dr. Robert Jakes looking at him.

  Mishima shook his head slowly as he looked up from his desk. A portable HV blared out the World Media documentary from a shelf behind him. He had been watching it with only half his attention while he continued to work over some calculations on a terminal.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said wearily. “I’m just too tired, Bob.”

  “You work too hard, Mishima. What’s the hurry?”

  “I don’t know. Just a funny feeling I have. I didn’t like the projections we were getting on that last batch of tests.”

  “Well, they’ll wait till morning for me,” Jakes said. “I think I’ll go down to the live set and watch the broadcast. Then I’m calling it a night.”

  “See you later, Bob.” Mishima smiled and waved at his superior as he disappeared out the door and down the long corridor. He liked Dr. Jakes immensely, and respected the man’s ability to see all the facets of a problem before offering a solution. But he knew that Jakes’s age and poor health were catching up with him. Sooner or later he was going to have to retire, and that would be a real loss to the agency.

  Mishi
ma allowed his attention to drift back to “The Day of the Dragonstar,” conceding that the production was indeed a first-class job. World Media had spared no expense to present comprehensive coverage of the entire story. The documentary was full of drama, tension, information, and style. It was everything they had promised it would be, and despite his ill feelings toward Phineas Kemp, he was forced to admit that the man had done a very good job.

  But none of it was going to matter very much if the radiation levels continued to rise.

  * * *

  Hakarrh, the capital city of the Saurian preserve: wide avenues and colorful tents; minarets and towers looming above the rows of tiny shops and stalls; large botanical gardens and parks, breaking up the patterned monotony of civilization. It was a strange kind of city. Its dirt roads and mud-brick and stone architecture appeared both primitive and alien, but its heart beat with a recognizable vitality. To be honest, though, Phineas had never actually liked being in the Saurian preserve.

  He had always felt the place to be besieged by the most noisome odors—a melange of smells that conjured up images of strangely cooked foods, alien exhalations and excrements, and rampant disease. Even though he had been assured by the microbiologists on Jakes’s team that the bacterial makeup of the Dragonstar’s interior was an exact match of the Earth’s, and that there was no cause for alarm, he still had odd feelings about remaining too long in close quarters with the Saurians and their environment.

  On this particular evening—the evening of the World Media broadcast—the Saurian city was ablaze with the lights, sounds, and music of a grand celebration. A platform had been built, and the Saurians had prepared a program of entertainment for the cameras to be presented after the historic meeting of John T. Neville and a band of selected Saurians who represented the various class levels of their society. Neville had met one or two Saurians already, but the World Media people were staging things to look like a first-time event.