The Dinosaur Chronicles (9 page)

F’set and M’zek at least recognized what he was trying to say and responded to his noises where he was told to expect a response.

The ceremony concluded with the presentation of the Bonding Amulet, a necklace of polished stone beads that Ferguson draped about Rehar M’zek where her head joined the thorax; a neck as such did not exist.

Later, after two other Tarapsetteans and several local humans that F’set had invited had left the reception that followed, Ferguson went up to the couple with an item in each hand.

“A custom, Tar F’set, on most human worlds, is the presentation of a gift to the parties of bonding. Now I do not, Rehar M’zek, know you as well I do Tar, here, but please accept what I hope you will enjoy.”

He handed the female a small package, ten centimeters on a side. Rehar M’zek thanked him and removed the wrapping, revealing an animated holopic of the Tarapseti home world.

Her antennae vibrated with what Ferguson interpreted as pleasure—or emotion. Then he turned to Tar F’set and handed him the larger package.

F’set didn’t open the package, as the contents had rattled.

“No, my friend. I cannot accept this. You made it with your own hands.”

“A gift without meaning is no gift, Tar F’set.”

“Then I shall bring it each time we play.”

After the bonding, Tar’s visits to Ferguson’s house diminished. Still, the old bug stole away at least twice each week, and their friendship continued until June 7 of that year.

He’d been awakened that morning, too, by a pounding on his door not the least like the crisp tapping of Tarapseti mandibles.

Half-dressed, he jerked open the door and growled, “There
is
a doorbell!”

The two patrolmen standing at his entrance started visibly.

The older patrolman glanced at the second, then at the occupant of the house and said, “We tried the bell. There was no answer.”

Ferguson blinked, looked at the bell setting to the right of the door-frame, and composed himself. “Sorry. I had the volume set to zero. What can I do for you gentlemen? It’s early for the annual fund-raiser.”

“Mr. Ferguson,” the second officer said, “do you know a Tar F’set?”

Ferguson’s dawn-diminished faculties grappled with the implications. “What’s happened?”

“There’s been an accident, Mr. Ferguson. A Tarapset was found injured by the side of the expressway this morning—apparently a hit-and-run. A convertible, reported stolen last night by one of your neighbors, was found nearby with its front end caved-in.”

The first officer added, “The party who found the victim says the last thing it said was, ‘Inform Ferguson.’ You’re the only Ferguson in the area.”

“The
last
thing!”

“The Tarapset is dead. Do you know why it mentioned your name?”

Ferguson bit his lip. His carefully-planned Tuesdays and Thursdays were obliterated. Retirement held few excitements, and the stimulation of losing to F’set’s superior chess he would miss. And, he admitted to himself, he always enjoyed watching certain of his neighbors scamper in from their yards whenever F’set would come round to visit.

Ferguson said quietly, “F’set is—was—a
he
, not an
it
.”

“Apologies, Mr. Ferguson. Your business with the Tarapset, please?”

Ferguson sighed. “He’d beat me over the chessboard, Constable, and sometimes laugh at my jokes. That was about it.” Then Ferguson stared. “Good God. Does Rehar M’zek know?”

The older man coughed. “
His
spouse is being informed by other officers.”

The younger policeman said, “Can we come in? It’s a bit awkward, like this—”

Ferguson nodded and waved the pair inside. “Coffee! Double-strength! Full pot!” he yelled at the kitchen as he stumbled along.

In the next hour, he told the officers what little he knew of Tar F’set’s background. Yes, he had officiated at his bonding; he’d known Tar F’set more than two years now; they’d met on the inbound shuttle; and on and on.

At length, Ferguson looked each man in the eyes and said, “Coffee’s parting the cobwebs. You two aren’t certain this was an accident, are you?”

The older man said, “On the way here, I had my PCU drag up the specs on Tarapseti anatomy. Did you know they had internal skeletons too? The exoskeleton alone could never carry them. So if you think about it, they’re more like armored dinosaurs than insects.”

“Your point?”

“The point is, you can’t just pick up your garden-variety sports rifle and knock one of these guys over. You’d just about
have to
hit them with a vehicle. And another thing—”

“Yes,” Ferguson said. “You can’t sneak up on a Tarapset. 360-degree vision.”

“Uh-huh. Of course, an accident can’t be entirely ruled out. Even with circumferential vision, inattention can lead to a mishap.”

“The car’s collision-avoidance radar should have prevented this in any case.”

“It’s tied to the speed governor. When joyriders short out the gov, the whole circuit goes.”

“There aren’t many people of joyriding age on Evensong,” Ferguson said dryly.

“There aren’t many murders on Evensong, either,” the younger officer replied. “Plus, what’s the motive?”

Ferguson didn’t know. A man—or bug—could make lots of enemies over a lifetime, but Tarapsetteans were so few on Evensong, F’set would surely have recognized any adversary. Unless it was a contract killing. But Ferguson kept that thought to himself.

Eventually the officers, satisfied with what answers he could give them, left. That afternoon, Ferguson returned to the bungalow that Tar F’set had shared with Rehar M’zek.

Rehar herself answered the door.

“I’m so very sorry, Rehar—” he began.

“Please come in, Gar Gisset,” the creature trilled softly, addressing him by the ceremonial name. “I had hoped to see you this day.”

He entered the big room of the small, three-room structure. Already present were two other Tarapsetteans, both bearing green cloth necklaces, a sign, Ferguson guessed, of condolence or respect. Rehar introduced him to Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor. Ferguson remembered them now from the bonding.

He hadn’t had time to look up the cultural aspects of dying in a Tarapseti community, but Ferguson had brought along what he hoped would pass for “comfort food” and still be edible by the creatures. Rehar seemed to recognize and accept the gesture.

The four of them then stood there, mainly, without much talk, but the bugs didn’t seem disturbed by the lack of conversation and Ferguson couldn’t think of much to say anyway, so that suited him. Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor did at intervals slowly wave their antennae in a manner that Ferguson had never seen before. He guessed it was some kind of consolation ritual. At length Rehar became restless and the other two Tarapsetteans traded whispers in their own language.
Time to go
, thought Ferguson.

Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor advanced to the door, and the human followed.

But as he bade her good-bye, Rehar touched his arm. “Wait one moment, Human. I know Tar would have wanted you to have this.” The bug opened a drawer and pulled out the set he’d carved, it seemed, in some other existence. Ferguson took it in his hands but couldn’t say anything. A spot appeared on the wooden box that held the pieces.

Rehar M’zek glanced at her other guests.

Fanz K’har, in awkward Galactic, said simply, “He grieves his friend.”

—

Ferguson stared into the cup of black coffee and watched as the red giant rose in the reflection. For humans, Evensong was a pleasant, temperate world, a world without extremes, but a world with a decidedly reddish cast.

Overly religious people never retired to Evensong.

For when the sun was up, it looked too much like Hell.

Ferguson felt that now. His vision swam, and he blinked his eyes. He not only grieved his friend, he’d killed him, surely as if he’d run over Tar F’set himself. Tar F’set had died on June 7. He spoke again, however, on June 28.

—

It rained that day. Ferguson remembered because the maddening marshmallow pink had been grayed out. He recalled sitting at his house unit, sifting through old mail, discarding files, paying bills, when he came across an entry marked, simply, P-KB4.

The file hadn’t been there the week before.

A tingle ran up his spine, and with one flash of the system pointer, he initiated the file.

The voice-generation unit came to life and said, “Human. Are you alone?”

“Yes,” Ferguson rasped, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“This file I have hidden on your system for some time. The ‘hidden’ attribute contains a timeout property that must be periodically refreshed. If I cannot refresh it for a period of three weeks, the file becomes visible.

”If you hear me now, it must mean that I am no longer on Evensong, or that I have expired. Probability favors the grimmer alternative.

“This recording will also self-annihiliate upon completion. Please pay close attention.”

Ferguson’s fingers flew over the keyboard, trying to get hold of a system hook to copy the file before losing it, but the keyboard was dead.

F’set’s voice continued:

“At one time I told you I had worked in a clerical capacity. That was a truth shrouding a larger truth. In my active life, I worked as General Secretary to Han T’par, the Old Emperor and Last of His Line. At his death, the royal families of my world elected the new emperor, although ‘elected’ in this case is not strictly truthful either. Any votes against the Zenar family would have resulted in serious repercussions, for they have for some years now run what my dictionary says you refer to as a ‘shadow government.’

”I of course knew how the succession fight would end, and made arrangements to leave Tarapseti. There is a practice,
Fahr Fuzut
, which refers to the cleaning of the ranks. It means that at the end of a dynasty, the officials of the old dynasty are executed by the officials of the new. Although the royal families have disavowed the practice,
Fahr Fuzut
is still invoked against those who were too close to the seat of power.

“This, of course, meant myself, along with several others.

”Now, as time has passed, a number of Tarapsetteans have come to live on Evensong. This increases the chance that one may be an assassin. I have tried to check the backgrounds of Rehar M’zek, Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor, and have verified those of Rehar M’zek and Fanz K’har. Rehar used to be a teacher, well thought-of by her friends and family, and Fanz K’har was an electronic mechanic with an honest, longstanding work record. Rebek Tor appears to have been a librarian, but this information is in some doubt.

“My real name, which you never knew, was Tar P’teng. My identity on Evensong was an artificiality.

”Our friendship, Human, was not, and I leave you this message so that you may know the truth, and know that when I was not forthcoming about myself, it was in no way the result of shame. For I served my Emperor, and my world, as well as I was able.

“End of message.”

—

Ferguson poured himself a second cup. The voice from the grave had stirred feelings of loss. And of anger. He remembered calling the Evensong Foreign Office that day and making an appointment with the Second Undersecretary of State for the next day, June 29. It was as far up the bureaucratic ladder as he could climb by telephone, but he’d intended it only as a start.

—

On the morning of the 29th, Ferguson climbed into the rental flivver that had been delivered to his house the previous evening. Ferguson had flown on his home world and still held his license. Keeping a flivver now, on Evensong, was more than his budget could bear, but the occasional flight in a rental was still affordable.

“Please enter destination,” a lilting female voice invited.

“Capital City, Main Admin Building, the Small-Vehicle Port.”

“Enter piloting license, if any, now.”

Ferguson gave his name and license number.

“Please select automatic flight or manual control.”

“Manual control.”

“As you wish. Automatic flight will, however, be in effect for the landing in the Class 2 security zone.”

Ferguson thumbed the starter, pointed the flivver down the town’s access road, and gained speed. Seconds later, he pulled back on the wheel and felt the ground fall away.

After reaching cruising altitude, he guided the plane into a north-northeasterly heading.

“This heading is insufficient if Capital City is your destination,” the computer voice objected.

“I intend to change heading after 300 kilometers. This way, I do not have the sun in the viewport.”

“The viewport filters will remove the glare.”

“But not the view. Is there anything wrong with flying for 300 clicks in this direction?”

The computer paused noticeably. Finally it said, “No. Carry on.”

“
Thank
you.”

“You’re welcome.”

On the current heading, Ferguson would pass over several mountain ranges, some rugged, some ground to smooth hillocks by retreating glaciation. It was scenery different from what he experienced every day, and different was something he needed.

Three hundred kilometers later, he tipped the flyer into an eastnortheasterly direction.

When he couldn’t pull it out of the tip, a sick feeling rose in his gut. “Computer!” he snapped. “Engage automatic pilot! Now!”

Nothing happened, and in a sudden wash of cold sweat he knew why the computer wasn’t listening.

The plane soon pointed east, and the tip was losing him altitude. He tried increasing throttle, but the throttle control didn’t work either.

The computer controlled the radio communications, so there was no way of calling a Mayday. Not that a retriever could get here in time to pluck him out of the sky anyway.

Think, man. You used to be an engineer, remember?

He reached for the handle on the access port in the middle of the dash and tugged. Locked. Of course.

He flew south. The red giant filled the viewport. Stray clouds marked its disk with a sardonic, mocking smile. After all, he’d come to Evensong to die.