DINOSAURS
The Shars seethed in the dim light of their ruddy sun. Pointed faces raised to the sky, they sniffed the faint wind for sign of the stranger and scented only hydrocarbons, far-off vegetations, damp fur, the sweat of excitement and fear. Weak eyes peered upward, glistened with hope, anxiety, apprehension, and saw only the faint pattern of stars. Short, excited barking sounds broke out here and there, but mostly the Shars crooned, a low ululation that told of sudden onslaught, destruction, war in distant reaches, and now the hope of peace.
The crowds surged left, then right. Individuals bounced high on their third legs, seeking a view, seeing only the wide sea of heads, the ears and muzzles pointed to the stars.
Suddenly, a screaming. High-pitched howls, a bright chorus of barks. The crowds surged again.
Something was crossing the field of stars.
The human ship was huge, vaster than anything they’d seen, a moonlet descending. Shars closed their eyes and shuddered in terror. The screaming turned to moans. Individuals leaped high, baring their teeth, barking in defiance of their fear. The air smelled of terror, incipient panic, anger.
War! cried some. Peace! cried others.
The crooning went on. We mourn, we mourn, it said, we mourn our dead billions.
We fear, said others.
Soundlessly, the human ship neared them, casting its vast shadow. Shars spilled outward from the spot beneath, bounding high on their third legs.
The human ship came to a silent rest. Dully, it reflected the dim red sun.
The Shars crooned their fear, their sorrow. And waited for the humans to emerge.
*
These! Yes. These. Drill, the human ambassador, gazed through his video walls at the sea of Shars, the moaning, leaping thousands that surrounded him. Through the mass a group was moving with purpose, heading for the airlock as per his instructions. His new Memory crawled restlessly in the armored hollow atop his skull. Stand by, he broadcast.
His knees made painful crackling noises as he walked toward the airlock, the silver ball of his translator rolling along the ceiling ahead of him. The walls mutated as he passed, showing him violet sky, far-off polygonal buildings; cold distant green... and here, nearby, a vast, dim plain covered with a golden tissue of Shars.
He reached the airlock and it began to open. Drill snuffed wetly at the alien smells— heat, dust, the musky scent of the Shars themselves.
Drill’s heart thumped in his chest. His dreams were coming true. He had waited all his life for this.
Mash, whimpered Lowbrain. Drill told it to be silent. Lowbrain protested vaguely, then obeyed.
Drill told Lowbrain to move. Cool, alien air brushed his skin. The Shars cried out sharply, moaned, fell back. They seemed a wild, sibilant ocean of pointed ears and dark, questing eyes. The group heading for the airlock vanished in the general retrograde movement, a stone washed by a pale tide. Beneath Drill’s feet was soft vegetation. His translator floated in the air before him. His mind flamed with wonder, but Lowbrain kept him moving.
The Shars fell back, moaning.
Drill stood eighteen feet tall on his two pillarlike legs, each with a splayed foot that displayed a horny underside and vestigial nails. His skin was ebony and was draped in folds over his vast naked body. His pendulous maleness swung loosely as he walked. As he stepped across the open space he was conscious of the fact that he was the ultimate product of nine million years of human evolution, all leading to the expansion, diversification, and perfection that was now humanity’s manifest existence.
He looked down at the little Shars, their white skin and golden fur, their strange, stiff tripod legs, the muzzles raised to him as if in awe. If your species survives, he thought benignly, you can look like me in another few million years.
The group of Shars that had been forging through the crowd were suddenly exposed when the crowd fell back from around them. On the perimeter were several Shars holding staffs— weapons, perhaps— in their clever little hands. In the center of these were a group of Shars wearing decorative ribbons to which metal plates had been attached. Badges of rank, Memory said. Ignore. The shadow of the translator bobbed toward them as Drill approached. Metallic geometrics rose from the group and hovered over them.
Recorders, Memory said. Artificial similarities to myself. Or possibly security devices. Disregard.
Drill was getting closer to the party, speeding up his instructions to Lowbrain, eventually entering Zen Synch. It would make Lowbrain hungrier but lessen the chance of any accidents.
The Shars carrying the staffs fell back. A wailing went up from the crowd as one of the Shars stepped toward Drill. The ribbons draped over her sloping shoulders failed to disguise four mammalian breasts.
Clear plastic bubbles covered her weak eyes. In Zen Synch with Memory and Lowbrain, Drill ambled up to her and raised his hands in friendly greeting. The Shar flinched at the expanse of the gesture.
“I am Ambassador Drill,” he said. “I am a human.”
The Shar gazed up at him. Her nose wrinkled as she listened to the booming voice of the translator. Her answer was a succession of sharp sounds, made high in the throat, somewhat unpleasant. Drill listened to the voice of his translator.
“I am President Gram of the InterSharian Sociability of Nations and Planets.” That’s how it came through in translation, anyway. Memory began feeding Drill referents for the word “nation.”
“I welcome you to our planet, Ambassador Drill.”
“Thank you, President Gram,” Drill said. “Shall we negotiate peace now?”
President Gram’s ears pricked forward, then back. There was a pause, and then from the vast circle of Shars came a mad torrent of hooting noises. The awesome sound lapped over Drill like the waves of a lunatic sea.
They approve your sentiment, said Memory.
I thought that’s what it meant, Drill said. Do you think we’ll get along?
Memory didn’t answer, but instead shifted to a more comfortable position in the saddle of Drill's skull.
Its job was to provide facts, not draw conclusions.
“If you could come into my Ship,” Drill said, “we could get started.”
“Will we then meet the other members of your delegation?”
Drill gazed down at the Shar. The fur on her shoulders was rising in odd tufts. She seemed to be making a concerted effort to calm it.
“There are no other members,” Drill said. “Just myself.”
His knees were paining him. He watched as the other members of the Shar party cast quick glances at each other.
“No secretaries? No assistants?” the President was saying.
“No,” Drill said. “Not at all. I’m the only conscious mind on Ship. Shall we get started?”
Eat! Eat! said Lowbrain. Drill ordered it to be silent. His stomach grumbled.
“Perhaps,” said President Gram, gazing at the vastness of the human ship, “it would be best should we begin in a few hours. I should probably speak to the crowd. Would you care to listen?”
No need. Memory said. I will monitor.
“Thank you, no,” Drill said. “I shall return to Ship for food and sex. Please signal me when you are ready. Please bring any furniture you may need for your comfort. I do not believe my furniture would fit you, although we might be able to clone some later.”
The Shars’ ears all pricked forward. Drill entered Zen Synch, turned his huge body, and began accelerating toward the airlock. The sound of the crowd behind him was the murmuring of wind through a stand of trees.
Peace, he thought later, as he stood by the mash bins and fed his complaining stomach. It’s a simple thing. How long can it take to arrange?
Long, said Memory. Very long.
The thought disturbed him. He thought the first meeting had gone well.
After his meal, when he had sex, it wasn’t very good.
* * *
END OF SAMPLE
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