The Dinosaur Chronicles (11 page)

The deathly silence which followed was broken first by the gentle applause of female hands cupping approval.

Then Figby exploded, “This is a violation of the Foreign Affairs Interference Act! You’ve put your own neck in the noose!”

Ferguson eyed Figby dispassionately. “How? All I gave Shevski were public records and a recording
from
an Evensong citizen
to
an Evensong citizen, one now dead, so the communication is releasable by the other. If you want to raise hell in court, be my guest.”

“I think I will return to my cell now,” Rehar M’zek injected.

Hollis spat coldly, “The bug stays!”

“I’m almost finished, anyway,” Ferguson said and turned back to the object of his wrath. “So, Rehar, your people will know of your treachery, and your superiors will know of your embarrassing exposure. I think,” he said, dripping acid with each syllable, “that upon your return they will have little further use for you.”

—

Ferguson shook his head. Anger had finally left with Rehar M’zek’s shuttle. What he hadn’t counted on was the melancholy that remained. Empty and sour, it had been suppressed by the hatred. Once released, the sadness had come bobbing to the surface like a corpse.

He got up to place his cup in the dishwasher when a familiar tapping played on his front door. “Doesn’t anyone here use the bell?” he groused, and banged his cup back on the windowsill.

Without bothering to check the HCU viewport, he crossed the living room in four quick steps and ripped open the front door.

A Tarapset stood quietly on his stoop.

Ferguson read the pattern on the bug’s carapace and said,

“Rebek Tor. Why am I not surprised?”

The Tarapset’s antennae waved momentarily in a gesture of puzzlement. Then it replied, “Perhaps you are prescient, Human, and that is why you are not surprised. Otherwise, I cannot answer your question.”

“It was just an expression. What do you want?”

The bug held up a recyclable hardcopy of the
Association Chess Quarterly
.

“It is my understanding that you are behind this revelation, and sources tell me you are the reason for Rehar M’zek’s humiliation.”

“Guilty as charged. Have you come to assassinate me also?”

More antenna waving. A long pause. Finally the bug spoke.

“You misunderstand, Human. On Tarapseti, I worked in the auditing department under the Old Emperor. My real name is Tau Martek, not Rebek Tor. Tar P’teng and I met, once, many years ago, but I could tell when I saw him here that he did not recall that meeting.

“Shortly before the dynastic change, I discovered that Tar was transferring funds off-planet. I wondered if he were embezzling. I discovered only that he was converting his own assets, sometimes at great loss, into Association Mutuals. Considering his position and what was to come, the reason for his actions was quite clear.

“After the Zenar family took power, I stayed on in my work. I felt that my connection to the previous dynasty was sufficiently tenuous to not pose any danger to myself.

“This changed after I reported several malfeasances to the new Emperor—financial crimes traced to several of his appointees.

“My presentation was greeted with the enthusiasm reserved for a carrier of Barakka plague, and I knew then that I had made a serious mistake.

“During my investigation of old Tar, I became aware of his interest in Evensong, and after my audience with the Emperor I resolved to escape to this world myself. I was not as well equipped as Tar, however, to provide a background for myself. Nonetheless, I did what I could, including falsifying my name and age in my immigration application.”

Ferguson was taken aback. “Why are you telling me all this, Rebek—Tau Martek?”

“For two reasons. First, your revelations are causing an upheaval on my world—”

The old engineer felt the blood rush from his face. “I had no intent to cause unrest—provoke bloodshed—except for the assassin!”

“I understand. But the turmoil has been long in coming. Tarapseti is not a part of the Association, but Association ideas have for decades infiltrated the literary and philosophical journals—contaminated them, in the words of some. My people, as they have grown in sophistication, have grown tired of the current form of government. And while the current form is not totally unrepresentative, there is a strong movement for reform. The outcome of the struggle is still in doubt, but recent news has been encouraging.”

Ferguson stared at the bug for a long time. “And what,” he finally asked, “is the second reason for your visit?”

The Tarapset unstrapped an object from his thoracic belt, opened the holographic projection and said, “I had hoped, perhaps, that you would join me in a game.”

Afterword

“Evensong” first appeared in
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine
(Issue 3, October/November 2002), as by T. Rex. “Evensong” was also later anthologized in
ASIM
’s “Best of” Anthology Vol. 1.

And,
ASIM
is still alive and kicking. And annoyingly regular in publication. It’s often listed as a semiprozine, but I’d categorize it as a gnat’s-eyelash-away-from-a-prozine. Plus, the people I worked with at
ASIM
were good people, when they weren’t falling off roofs (inside story).

“Evensong” is pretty much your standard SF adventure that includes at least one alien species. I tried to make the Tarapsetteans as alien as I could without creating problems for communication. This was, after all, an adventure tale and not a science tale about language. For the latter, I recommend James Gunn’s classic,
The Listeners
.

One topic raised in “Evensong” is the frequency of technological species in a galaxy at any one time. (For a detailed discussion, look up the “Drake Equation” and you’ll find plenty of articles.)

I rather suspect that technological species are very, very rare. Consider our own situation and the prospect of interstellar colonization. Space is filled with radiation inimicable to biological life without a significant metal or water barrier between the void and the inside living quarters of a spacecraft. That’s one reason why the upcoming manned mission to Mars is so hazardous. For an
interstellar
trip, placing so much shielding (read: mass) into orbit would be extraordinarily expensive, not to mention the cost of the interstellar craft to begin with.

I much rather think that, when we get around to colonizing the stars, it will be as frozen egg and sperm carried by robotic spacecraft, and managed later by artificial wombs and robot nannies and semi-sentient computers. The concept of living interstellar spacefarers is shaky at best.

When that happens, I just hope the computers don’t ask themselves, “Tell me again why we’re carrying this biological contaminant?”

The point I’m trying to make is this: Given the advances in computer technology over just the last 50 years (who remembers Hollerith cards?—raise your hands!), it won’t be long before we have the computer and robotic technology to handle the biological aspects of this. And as for the spacecraft itself, we’re already at the point where the Pioneer craft are at the edges of our solar system. As frozen egg and sperm, who would care if it takes a thousand years to get from here to Proxima Centauri?

But there’s one more point: Given such a scenario, it wouldn’t take more than, say, ten million years to colonize the entire Galaxy. The robotic craft, once proven effective, would explode in numbers and seek out every available, livable planet.

And so, unless we’re the first technological species in the Galaxy, the question is, “Why haven’t we been contacted or exploited?” Life on Earth has been around for at least a billion years. If the development of technological species were common, odds alone would have had Earth colonized by Others long ago.

So it’s pretty much lonely out there, I fear.

That’s sobering.

Drink, please.

I like Jerry. He always puts me back in the same spot, and from here I can see all the lanes and the front door too. I like lookin’ out the front door; it tells me there’s life out there.

But when Frieda cleans up, I wind up in all sorts of places. Like on the bottom rack, with the sixteen-pounders. Bunch of blow-hards. But Jerry cleaned up last night, and I’m in my favorite spot.

It’s mid-week, with just a couple lanes bein’ bowled. Outside the swingin’ door, it’s drizzlin’ rain. Not a day for yard work, but the rain looks delicious, and I’d love to feel it running down my face.

I see figures at the door, and soon two fellows push their way inside. An older man, with lines on his face and sunbaked jowls—farmer, ya know?—and a younger fellow, pale and skinny, with a bowlin’ shirt that says
Stan’s Flowers
on the back and wearin’
dress pants
, for God’s sake. Weenie, first class. Mama’s boy.

So they roll a set, but in the middle of the last game the younger guy slips, tosses a flyer and his ball lands halfway down the alley. When the ball comes outta the return, he sees that it’s cracked.

I see it, too, and hope it’s nobody I know.

But his partner points to the racks and Skinny comes up, paws over the twelve-pounders and lifts me to his chest, usin’ both hands.

Now, ya may think that bein’ a bowlin’ ball is an easy job, and for the most part, it is. I don’t even mind gettin’ knocked into the pins; it don’t hurt much. What gets me is rollin’ down the alley, havin’ the world spin ‘round ya and havin’ first the boards in front of ya and then the ceilin’ lights shinin’ in your eyes—I’ve never gotten used to it.

But Skinny, see, he’s got a light touch, an easy touch, and I don’t really mind the rolls when he’s throwin’ me. And I keep havin’ funny thoughts, but it’s hard to concentrate when you’re in motion. Still I try.

Finally I get it, in the last frame, as he’s tossin’ his count ball, and I get all choked up, and then I can’t remember it again; it ain’t permitted.

I roll down the alley, hit the head-pin, and leave him a 4-7-10. Good thing he doesn’t have to spare it.

So when I come back outta the return, I see them packin’ up and the older guy says, “All you needed was an eight-count. What happened?”

Skinny zips his bag and looks up. “I don’t know, Dad. I was rolling the ball pretty well, but then this picture of Mona just popped in my mind ...”

The older face grows dark at the mention of the woman’s name, but Skinny keeps on talkin’.

“... and right at the end of my last backswing the ball got all slippery, so I tried to compensate—”

His dad snips off the words, like with a tree pruner, ya know? He barks, “Forget the wench!” and his jowls begin to chomp, like they’re chewin’ on the hurt of a thousand lousy harvests. “Any gal who leaves her man and daughter to run off with some slick-haired biker—”

“Dad! Please!” Skinny looks around, tryin’ to see if the other people in the alley are lookin’ their way.

“Please, nothin’!” his dad spits out. “She
deserved
what happened! An’ I wouldn’t be surprised if God Hisself—or maybe the Devil—covered the eyes of that stinkin’ boyfriend of hers that day they pulled out in front of that eighteen-wheeler ...”

The kid gets paler than he already is, and he wilts—like a flower in a furnace. He wipes a sleeve across his eyes and takes off for the door. His dad, realizin’ now what he did, runs after him, grabbin’ their bowlin’ bags along the way.

“Son, son ...” he calls out, and the hatred in his voice is gone, replaced by an emptiness that echoes in the big open space above the lanes. “I didn’t mean to be so rough,” he gasps as he falls into step beside his son. “I guess you still love her ... right?”

I’m here, in the return rack, and I’m angry and I’m hurtin’. But not because I can’t remember. It’s ‘cause they’re headin’ out the door.

And I never hear the answer.

Afterword

“Open Frame” first appeared in
Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine
(Spring 2003), as by T. Rex.

Every
writer has a reincarnation story. And that’s all I’ll say!

The field cricket kicked and squirmed, but Rupert DeNeuve held it firmly between his thumb and forefinger.

He turned the cricket over, exposing its back, and dotted the creature with a dab of Eliza’s Quick-Drying Polar White fingernail polish.

Rupert never dotted the larger, spindley-legged camel crickets; if he caught one, he just threw it out the nearest window. But field crickets—like the one he held now—stridulated, and few things irritated him more than hunting down a chirping cricket in his bedroom at three o’clock in the morning.

The camel crickets—ugly as they were with their long legs and humped bodies—bore the virtue of silence.

Still, Rupert reasoned, the field crickets could hardly help being what they were, and at first he just threw them out as he did their larger warped cousins.

But after a time he suspected the chirpers he threw out were making their way back into his house, and he came to a sobering compromise between his distaste for violence and his need for sleep.

Every stridulating annoyance he caught would be given one chance. If the cricket re-entered his house, it would be summarily squashed, and to distinguish the first-time offenders from the career criminals, he marked those he released with the white fingernail polish.

After dotting his current capture, Rupert used a hair dryer—set on cool—to dry the polish. He then tossed the cricket out of his study window. The entire process had taken less than two minutes.

While some might think two
seconds
too long a time to waste considering a bug’s fate, Rupert DeNeuve was happy with his compromise. It suited his system, his temperament, his peculiar frame of mind.

For Rupert, a peculiar man, had grown so from his beginnings as a peculiar child. He saw the world differently from the way it was seen by his classmates or teachers. At age 6 he surprised his parents with the question, “Why is there Something instead of Nothing?”