Day of the Dragonstar

by David Bischoff

  Puzzled, he embraced her and looked down to Coopersmith.

  Coopersmith cleared his throat as he rose and went over to speak with the five saurians sitting nearby, dressed in flowing, colorful robes. Or he made an approximation of speech, anyway, filled with gestures.

  Kemp didn’t pay too much attention. Emotions twisted and roiled inside him. Joy soured to jealousy, relief to anxiety. He turned to Becky. She confronted his searching gaze with an honest, open expression that said, Yes, Phineas. Things have changed between us.

  He stepped back a moment and gazed about the hall as Mikaela Lindstrom stepped over to Ian Coopersmith and began babbling excited questions. A dozen armed saurians stood guard in various places. They spoke their high-pitched chitter to one another, occasionally turning toward the party and simply staring with reptilian astonishment.

  Coopersmith excused himself from Mikaela’s questions and guided one of the saurians over to meet Kemp.

  “Colonel Kemp, I should like you to meet Thesaurus, who has been seeing to our needs and communicating with us. Thesaurus is sort of a scientist-ruler.”

  “Uhm, hello Thesaurus,” Kemp muttered. He was shocked that Coopersmith’s nearness didn’t produce a strong urge to throttle him. Only a mild urge. “Your friend doesn’t look so good, Coopersmith.”

  “No. A little too full of scientific curiosity for his own good. There’s some kind of hole in the wall at the end of the cylinder. Full of interesting things, from what I can gather:”

  “You’ve been there.”

  “Yes. Didn’t go in, though. Apparently, it’s got a high radiation level.”

  “That would explain the shape the poor fellow’s in.”

  “Yes. The price of knowledge is steep.”

  “We’ll have to get radiation suits and explore.”

  “The request was on the tip of my tongue,” said Coopersmith.

  Phineas Kemp breathed deeply twice and let all his emotions go with his final exhalation. He carefully fitted on his professional veneer, and he turned to Nordman. “Raise Michaels and Zabriski on the com. Make sure they’re still okay.”

  “Check, Colonel.”

  Kemp and his crew had landed near the city, and immediately been surrounded by the saurians. Lindstrom had almost burst with ecstasy. “These must be Sauronithoides, Phineas,” she cried. “We’re looking at intelligent creatures who might very well have been the big wheels on Earth, if they’d had the chance. Intelligent dinosaurs, Phineas. Imagine!” After a period of extreme caution on the humans’ part, as the saurians executed various odd dances and capers which appeared to be some kind of proclamation of peaceful intentions, Kemp had allowed the saurians to lead them away, leaving Michaels and the pilot to guard the ornithopter and serve as relay for communications between them and the base.

  The com unit squawked, and a voice said, “Roger. Zabriski here. We’ve got about a hundred of the things milling about, forty-five meters away. Tamed and astonished, I’d say. Treating us a though we’re gods.”

  “Get that, Colonel?”

  “Got it,” he turned back to face Becky. “The question is, will they let us go?”

  “I don’t think there will be any problem with that, Phineas, as long as we make our intentions clear, and promise to come back. At first they didn’t know what to make of us. But once their priest-class got ahold of us . . . well, we started getting treated like royalty. I’ve managed to figure out a few words and gestures in the days we’ve been here. Ian’s done a lot better than I have, haven’t you, Ian?”

  Because he’s a reptile, too, a snake in the grass, Kemp thought, but as soon as he realized the irrational nature of that thought, that feeling, he suppressed it. “So. We’ve much to talk about, then.” Not a quiver or a shake to his voice. But Phineas Kemp found no pleasure, no self-righteousness in his display of pride.

  “Yes,” Ian Coopersmith said. He rose. He was wearing a robe similar to the ones that the lizard-priests wore.

  “Nice outfits, huh?” Becky said, spreading her own and performing a mock curtsy. The robe was like a piece of a rainbow. “Needless to say, our suits were a trifle dirty and ragged after our expedition here.” Her hair was newly washed. Soft and smooth, shining in the light from the window. On a very deep level, Kemp knew that he would never be able to touch it the way he would like to again.

  Even though he hadn’t lost her to the dinosaurs, he’d lost her.

  He glanced over at Mikaela, and took some comfort in her presence. He could hear his father’s voice say: You’ve become an old softy, Phineas. The women have finally got you right where they want you, one hand on the gonads, one gripped on your heart. Say goodbye to your dignity.

  And Phineas thought, Yeah. You’re right, Dad. Now shut up.

  Ian Coopersmith stood, brushing off his hands, “So, we’ve got lots of time. What do you want to hear first? How we got here, or what we’ve found?”

  “In any order you care to give it,” Kemp said. “Only we really don’t have that much time, Ian.” He looked at him sternly. “Our problems aren’t over yet, Looks like the TWC is going to make a military play for this vessel. When, we don’t know, but we have to be prepared. There’s no one between them and us. We’re on our own.” He told them about the sabotage.

  “Damn,” Ian said. “And I thought we were home free.”

  “Home’s a long way away, Ian,” Kemp said resignedly. “And there are some big obstacles in our path.”

  CAPTAIN FRANCIS WELSH sat in his quarters of the Andromache, drinking his fourth beer of the morning, when the TWC expeditionary leader entered.

  “’Lo, Jashad,” Welsh called cheerily, holding up an unopened bulb of beer. “Have yourself a cocktail.”

  “I am sorry, my friend. My religion forbids the consumption of alcoholic beverages.” White teeth showed through a dark beard.

  “Oh yeah. Well, smoke a joint, then.” Blearily Welsh leaned over and procured a recently rolled marijuana cigarette for his captor. The man called Jashad accepted it graciously and lit it with his own lighter.

  “’Everyone has his weaknesses,” the handsome, fortyish man explained, blowing out his words with an exhalation of smoke.

  “Everybody’s got his drug, you mean,” Welsh said, laughing. He took a gulp of his beer. “Even if they only manufacture it for themselves in their brains.” He coughed. “Yeah, I can see the shelf of the stuff in the average TWC peon brain. A gallon of the elixir of stupidity. A vial of arrogance. A beaker of misinformation. And a whole crock of the bullshit you fling for propaganda!”

  Jashad laughed heartily. “You misunderstand us, Captain Welsh.”

  “Really?” He crumpled his beer bulb container, tossed it into the trash receptacle, and reached for another full one. “I understand you killed a lot of people to get my ship. A lot of my friends. I understand that you would have killed me too, if you didn’t think I might be useful in your mission . . . whatever the shit that might be.” Welsh snorted. “What are you here for? Another game of chess? Never thought you’d find an infidel who could actually beat you once in a while, did you, Jashad?”

  “I admit, I do enjoy our games.” He took another casual draw from the cigarette, holding it in his lungs for only a second or two. “But I have not come here to engage in that activity.”

  “Yeah, well, like I told you, I’m not going to help you navigate, or anything. I swear to God.”

  “That’s not necessary, Captain Welsh. Our own men have proved most effective in that capacity. And we have nearly reached our destination.”

  “So now you’re going to kill me, huh? Can I finish my beer first?”

  “Please, Captain Welsh. You are too bitter. Your company has been most welcome on this trip. I have grown most fond of you. No, you may yet be of service. And besides, even if you had no potential for service, I would still not have you killed.
You have proved yourself harmless enough, if provided with”—he pointed to the trash can full of empty beer bulbs—“enough cocktails.”

  “I have that to thank you for, anyway,” Welsh admitted grudgingly.

  “You were the one with sufficient supplies,” said Jashad. “We merely allowed you . . . access.” He sat down in a chair, which was bolted to the floor. “No, I am here, Captain Welsh, neither to play chess with you nor to kill you.”

  “Cheers then.”

  “I’m here to try to explain.”

  Welsh almost spit out his beer. “Explain! What good is that going to do you, Jashad! Explain what, anyway?”

  “Exactly why the drastic measures we’ve taken have been necessary. Captain Welsh, you may not be aware of this, but the fate of the world lies in the balance now.”

  Welsh listened to the story of Artifact One with something approaching disbelief. “Holy shit,” he said, finally. “No wonder you folks want it. You want to know about its stardrive, so that all the star colonists will be good little Moslems.”

  “You are being simplistic, Captain. We are mostly concerned with the present balance of power on Earth. Already, the other forces of the world have outstripped our collective nations not only in outer space accomplishments, but in affairs terrestrial. We do not wish to become the leaders of the world, Captain. We merely wish a balance of power. We wish for our various cultures, beliefs, and world-views to have an influence on the destiny of mankind. We wish for the children we bring into the world to have a place in that world. We wish, in short, for an identity, As holders of the keys to the universe, perhaps we might find that identity, Captain. We regret our tactics. They are all we know. Besides, what other tactics might we use to obtain that which we need not only to survive, but to maintain our self-esteem, our integrity? Too long have we suffered. We have to take these measures, can’t you see?”

  “And so, to maintain all that shit, you’ve murdered the crew of this ship and are about to slaughter our people who’ve taken over what you call Artifact One.”

  “Only if that is necessary, Captain.”

  “In other words, if they don’t surrender upon demand. Which you bloody well know isn’t very likely.”

  “We don’t want to kill them, Captain,” said Jashad. “And we doubt that we can persuade them to give up. Ah—perhaps, if you explained the situation to them, they might better understand.”

  “Up yours, Jashad. I told you, no go. Kill me first.”

  Jashad sighed heavily. He stood and thumbed the door control.

  Welsh stiffened, expecting his death to enter.

  “Gentlemen, if you will!” Jashad called.

  Two men entered, holding more bulbs of beer. They set them down beside Welsh, then departed.

  Jashad made a mock-Islam bow to Welsh. “Drink up, friend Welsh. I want to beat you in this afternoon’s game of chess.”

  He left.

  Mumbling to himself, Captain Francis Welsh popped another top.

  “. . . AND SO WE atook our clothes off,” Becky said, lounging casually on a mound of leaf-stuffed pillows.

  Kemp choked on his strong, lukewarm tea. “What did you do that for?” He looked over to Ian Coopersmith, sitting with a fat smug grin on his face. He had to hold back the irrational feelings of jealousy that still flooded him at the thought of Coopersmith and Becky together. Even his warm feelings for Mikaela provided scant comfort in this situation.

  “It was Becky’s suggestion,” Coopersmith said, “and quite a brilliant one, I must say.”

  “Why, Becky? To show you were discarding your weapons?”

  “No. Principally to show the saurian that we were intelligent beings, that the stuff we wore wasn’t skin. As it turned out, Ian had the common sense later on to realize that we’d better put the clothes back on, and fast, or they’d club us senseless.”

  Kemp blinked. “But why? I don’t understand. Surely all this, around us”—he swept his hands around, indicating the room they sat in, with its rugs and its intricate mosaics, the scattered manuscripts on the floor, the windows offering views of other buildings— “surely this suggests rational minds.”

  “You forget, Phineas,” Mikaela said, “that we’re not dealing here with human beings. The rationality of these creatures is most likely based on an entirely different set of circumstances, to say nothing of environment and bio-social necessities.”

  Phineas shook his head, confused. “So continue, Coopersmith. What happened then?”

  “Well, they dragged us to what we thought was a prison and locked us in separate cubicles. Previously, we’d seen really bizarre behavior. One of the saurians accidentally got his shirt tom off—that’s all the middle class of the society wears, you know—and the others just clubbed him into unconsciousness, as though it was an automatic response. They’re evidently not exactly gentle with one another here in Saurian Land. So they stuck me in my cubicle, manacled me—”

  “Me too,” Becky said, “only they clubbed the previous occupant of my cell, who’d been in a real lather.”

  “Right. But the occupant of my cell was asleep in the comer.”

  “Pleasant,” Kemp said, wishing they could go outside. The reptilian musk of this place was getting to him.

  “Yes. But you know, when this particular chap woke up, all he seemed to do was scream to get out. And they let him out. All calm and civilized as you please when he exited. Well, to make a short story shorter, they kept us there for a few hours. Then they brought us here and introduced us to Thesaurus, who’s become quite a friend. Near as we can reckon, Thesaurus belongs to the upper class. The priests. Or the philosopher-kings, if you will. Plato would love it here. Evidently, they’ve got three classes, just like in his Republic. They’ve got a warrior-class, a worker class”—he nodded over to the guards—“a sample of which you see yonder. And the priests, who serve as religious and community organizers as well as governors. But this is not a political system, Phineas. It’s more a biological system. In the days that we’ve been here, Becky and I have been pretty much able to sketch out the scope of this civilization. Of course, there are details and nuances we’ll never be able to understand, unless we could know what it’s like to be a saurian. We think, though, we’ve got the basis.”

  Mikaela said, “What about families? They wouldn’t have families, would they? Being reptiles.”

  “You put your finger on one of the keys,” Becky said.

  “Let me guess the other one,” Mikaela interrupted with great excitement. “They probably don’t have any limbic system in their brains. Just the R-complex, blending into their version of the neo-cortex.”

  Becky raised an eyebrow at Ian. “It took us days.”

  Ian snorted playfully. “Yes, well she’s a paleontologist, isn’t she? We’re just laymen on that subject!”

  “Hey! Wait a moment,” Kemp said with irritation. “You’re leaving this layman way behind. Fill me in.”

  “Okay,” Mikaela said. She turned to Coopersmith and Thalberg. “Do you mind?”

  “You’re the authority,” said Coopersmith, smiling.

  “Deep down, we’ve still got a reptilian heritage,” Mikaela said. “Mammals are descended from reptiles. The part of the human brain that is still reptilian is a group of massive ganglia. The corpus striatum, the globus pallidus—”

  “You don’t have to get so technical. Just the essentials, okay?” Kemp said.

  “Ah. Very well. Essentially, there are three parts of the human brain. From bottom up, there is the R-complex , which plays a vital part, in our instincts. Aggression, ritual, and territoriality—these are all things that are controlled by the serpent inside of us. Including sexual display, I might add. Now, atop this, with an entirely different chemical system, is the Limbic system, our mammalian heritage. This might be called the seat of our emotions, our tendency to form social
groups, to be angry, to despair, to love, to nurture, and to continue the species and the culture. Quite a bit more complex than our reptilian natures. Following that is the neo-cortex, which is the home of reason. This is where we think. Again, an entirely separate system. Current psychotherapeutic thought is that if you can get all these systems into harmony, you’ve got a well-adjusted human being. But if any of them gets out of control—which they often do—you’ve got trouble.” She turned to Coopersmith and Thalberg. “I presume that you’ve supposed this by the behavior of the saurians.”

  “Yes,” Coopersmith said. “From what we can tell, the system is this. The warrior class does not actually live within these walls. Apparently, whatever serves for their version of a neocortex is only used occasionally, most likely in times of danger for the species. How they know about danger, I’ve no idea. Some kind of ESP? God knows. At any rate, the others don’t want them around, anyway. Too dangerous. Now, the middle-class, the workers, are a pretty strange bunch. In their normal, shall we say, ‘waking’ stage, they are perfectly rational individuals, easily organized by the leaders and by traditional social dictates. In short, good citizens. The good citizens wear that little shirt, for a very good reason. You see, they’ve not developed the same kind of sleep system we have. When their neo-cortex—or the analog for that in their brain—turns off to do its data storage and processing, this allows the R-complex to take over. Since the actual body and brain need only a couple of hours to actually sleep, these middle-classers are essentially schizoid beings. You never know if your neighbor is going to kill and eat you. Not quite so drastic, but harmful. Jekyll and Hyde, don’t you know? So, the system is simple. From infancy, just before the individual realizes he’s falling asleep, he or she is trained to tear off his or her shirt, thus signaling others to get the individual in check if there’s trouble. Generally, though, when the saurians get tired, they check into one of the cubicles we were thrown into. When mating time comes, they just throw a male and a female in the same cubicle together just before their bedtime.”