The Dance, page 13
“Let me guess,” says Ranesh. “Still dreaming about Alusinar.”
I laugh. He knows me so well.
“Maybe,” says Trinda, “you lived there in a previous life.”
I nod. “That or maybe I’m there in another dimension.”
Ranesh snorts. “You two actually believe in reincarnation and other dimensions.”
“No one can prove they are or are not real,” I tell him as he spoons some blue plant goo into his mouth. “Is that good?” I want to change the subject.
He pauses a moment, maybe to decide if he wants to play along. Then he nods. “Looks weird, but tastes exquisite.” He grins and holds out his eating utensil. “Try it?”
I hesitantly grasp the spoon and take a tiny bite. He’s right. “It’s delicious, but the texture feels like I’m eating coagulated blood.”
Trinda grimaces but Ranesh just shrugs. You could tell him he’s eating shit-encrusted alien intestines, or it could have the consistency of a dead sea slug, and all he’d say is, “Well, it tastes great!” Especially if it’s considered a health food.
We finish our meals and go back to our posts. I’m logging some data when a leschkin approaches me. The leschki are a race that have at least four genders. There may be more, but it’s difficult to tell since they all wear “lizard” armour which, in their opinion, makes them appear more formidable to unfriendly races. They’re also not very forthcoming about personal preferences, which suits me just fine.
The armour resembles a green, overlarge lizard, so this particular leschkin towers over my 1.7 metre frame. Without the armour, they’re about half my size. I have yet to see any more than a metre tall.
When they speak, I recognize the voice as a female—which I’ve learned is not quite the same gender as I am—by the name of Esh. What I know about h’er gender is confusing, so I won’t try to explain, but I think in my own mind I’ve got it right.
“There’s an activity on Alusinar,” s’he says. “It has been going for the day, but I wanted to be sure it was something to continue before I came to report. Because that planet is not one we are particular about.”
H’er grasp of common is slightly tinged by h’er own language, but I understand h’er meaning. I go with h’er to the observation room. I enjoy observing. I’ve been asked to accompany teams before, but I’m prevented from doing so by an irrational fear of stepping onto a strange planet and meeting a being that is so not humanoid that I can’t recognize their species, damaging or insulting them. But Alusinar has fascinated me for long enough that it might be the place to get me to challenge that fear.
On the screen, a structure is being built. At first neither I nor Esh can tell who, or what the builders are. It seems the structure is appearing out of thin air.
“Esh, are we doing that?”
“No. I have had exchanges with Captain Taron, and he has made reports to me that we are not responsible.”
Of course not. S’he would have told me that earlier, if I hadn’t already been informed as the work started. We watch for a while; I take mental notes. “When will—” I start, but Esh cuts me off.
“I see it now. Look!” S’he magnifies the screen. Points. Magnifies again. Then, I see it as well. What we had thought to have been fog is made up of lifeforms. At this magnification, we can see the co-operative swirls and thick streams of mist. They pull and push the earth into formation, creating walls.
My heart drops to my feet. This irrational fear of not recognizing a life form has just come true. It lifts as I realize I’m here and they’re there. I haven’t insulted them by not being able to identify them. Excitement floods me.
“I am getting report teams together now,” Esh says, interrupting my thoughts. S’he’s on h’er way out of the room. “You are staying here now for more information.” It sounds more commanding than it is; it’s just h’er way with words, so I take no offense.
As I watch, thin mists form dense lines to carve symbols into the walls. I can’t quite make them out though, and what I can make out (hands?) I don’t recognize as language. I’m certain it means something more to them than to me.
I’m excited for teams to form, to get over there and bring back photos and better intel. Will we make a new ally? An enemy? I’m also excited—and frightened—to think that I may be able to accompany a team and put this phobia out of its misery. Conflicted, I can’t hold it together. I leave my post to go find Esh and the Captain.
So do you see now? On Scud I may very well be living my best life with my kids, and getting to visit unknown planets. On Resh’s Space Station, I may be getting to take that first exciting trip and extinguishing a useless dread. But here?
Here on Earth, no one believes the fog of Alusinar is made up of life forms. They think living beings need two legs, two arms; life forms don’t look like mist and vapour. I can’t make anybody understand.
But I hear them as well.
Yeah, I don’t just see all the possibilities, I can sometimes hear the Alusinarians in my head, as if they’re beckoning me back. I think it’s possible the structure they’ve built in other universes is meant to take me back to them in some way; that, unlike us, their realities mesh together somehow (is that what the hand-like symbols represent?). Have they built a structure on this reality’s Alusinar? I suspect they have. I’ll never know if I can’t get back there.
Yet what those misty life forms don’t understand is that it won’t work; it’s just not that simple for me, a mere human being.
So, now tell me, Doctors, do you think I’m crazy?
JURASSIC DINOMANCY
Rosie Smith
MY FEET PLOPPED DOWN ONTO the soft brown sand of the Montana coast. “Wow, we made it,” I burbled. Okay, not exactly a memorable line up there with “one small step for man.” Noworries. When I go back home, I will come up with something that my devoted fans, and maybe even my more-numerous occasional followers on social media, will gobble up.
With a quick glance in all directions, Dr. Crundworth said to me, “Safety first, Dora. I am serious. If we run into any trouble, you must get yourself back to the twenty-first century immediately. No hesitating.” He pointed to my chrono-porter. “You be sure to keep that strapped on your wrist.” Patting a zippered pocket of his freshly-ironed safari vest, he added, “Mine is right in here. Not that I’ve ever had to make a hasty exit from the Jurassic.” He ran a hand through what might once have been a full head of perfectly-groomed hair. “You picked one of the most experienced dinomancers in the business.”
Dinomancer, huh? How was this anything more than a grandiose title for a tour guide? I thought better of asking him for fear he might tell me. At length. The man could not help sharing all the finer points of his chosen profession, which I had found, at first, to be reassuring. I had done a ton of meticulous research and even contacted a couple of Jurassic Dinomancy’s satisfied clientele. In the end, I hired the most expensive tour operator out there, not that there were very many. It would be foolish to skimp when personal safety was vital.
“You see,” Dr. Crundworth continued, “it takes someone who knows the habits of the local species thoroughly to make sure you stay safe as you observe the fine creatures of the Jurassic. You want to see a brontosaurus? Or a herd of stegosauruses?” Not waiting for my response, he plunged onward as he led me a short distance along the beach to a rank stream—more sludge than water—which snaked into the seaway. “Of course, you do. Everybody loves the biggest dinosaurs. I will take you to the most reliable viewing spots upstream.”
Peering between the head-high ferns populating the stream bank, I said, “Actually, I’m interested in allosaurus.”
“Isn’t everyone?” My guide gave me a knowing smile. “Don’t get your hopes up. Apex predators are significantly scarcer than most people suppose. That is a good thing.”
No, it is not. “I came to watch it give a ferocious roar. From a good, safe distance.” I switched on my top-of-the-line recorder, which I wore as a body cam. I relished the thought of the zillions of new followers I was sure to attract by becoming the first person to ever capture those great beasts uttering their never-before-recorded bellows. I am sure to have it made the minute I incorporate them into my next exclusive indie offering. “They say it’s terrifying.”
“I have never seen or heard one roar. Not in four years of dinomancy. Why would it?”
I guessed, “To shout how it’s the biggest, meanest bad-ass to stomp into a clearing and terrorize the plant munchers?”
He snorted. “A common misperception.” His condescending attitude reminded me of a lot of the over-educated men in my grandfather’s generation.
From the opposite side of the stream came the sounds of several big beasts crashing through chest-high ferns and splintering the cycads. I turned to point my recorder in their direction.
“Stegosauruses,” the dinomancer proclaimed. Three adults, each as tall as an eighteen-wheeled tractor trailer, waddled into view, followed by a handful of juveniles. They made short work of chowing down on the undergrowth; they were like moss-green Mesozoic mowing machines with atrocious table manners. “Look at the size of their thigh muscles.”
I nodded, monitoring the recorder’s feed.
“If an allosaurus bellowed, or even let out a low growl, the herd would be on the far side of Laurasia before you got halfway through your first scream. That carnivore is a masterful stalker. It puts tigers to shame. We will not see an allosaurus, Dora, unless it lets us.”
“And if we do?”
“Unless we are extraordinarily fortunate, that will be the last thing we are likely to ever see.”
I took in his sombre expression. “Well, what about hearing it roar, off in the distance?” I was not about to give up my dream of being the first to capture the predator’s much-rumoured soul-chilling cries.
“I am afraid not. Uninformed dinomancers will tell you the male bellows to attract prospective mates, or to intimidate the competition. Or even to demarcate the limits of his territory. Stuff and nonsense, all of it. We are not even certain we know the size of a single individual male’s territory.” By now, he had fully warmed to his subject and entered venerable-professor mode. I pictured his irreverent students doing snarky imitations. The man could not even hold the interest of the stegasauruses. They lumbered away.
“Do the females roar—to summon their young, maybe?” I would not and could not go back into the studio with no new material.
“Well, Dora, the females supposedly have the loudest voices. Not surprising, huh?”
I gave him a glare.
“Hey, it was a joke.” He reached for my arm to guide me around the trunk of a cycad that had fallen across the game trail.
I evaded his grasp and resisted the urge to let a monster fern frond swat the man’s chest. Farther upstream, after I found myself grinding my teeth while enduring his discourse on stegosaurus dentition, we came to a trough gouged into the mud bank. It held a clutch of eggs like big blue cantaloupes.
“Brontosaurus eggs.” The dinomancer pronounced.
“Really? I read that they are supposed to be tan, to blend in with the dirt.”
“Paleontologists used to think so, but recent discoveries, like this one, support the blue-egg hypothesis.”
“Where is Mama Brontosaur?” I peered into the green maze of ferns.
“The females may leave their eggs untended for brief periods. Oh yes, that is well established.” My guide chattered on —way more than anyone could want to know as to how an expectant brontosaurus selects the right patch of mud for egg laying. I resigned myself to a full afternoon of his dino-splaining. When it got to be too much, I could insist that he shut up so I could capture the whuffles of the stegosauruses, if they ever came back, or maybe other Jurassic dinosaurs would amble our way.
Dr. Crundworth leaned out over the bank and gestured to emphasize a point. The soft mud gave way. He tumbled into the muddy stream, splattering primordial ooze.
I bit back my laughter. “Are you okay?”
He squelched up the crumbling bank, strands of aquatic vines adorning his no-longer impeccable hair, and gave me a sour look. I ducked my head and checked the main camera and volume level on my recorder, suddenly aware that the wilderness had gone silent. I shoved the device back into position and twisted around to glimpse a flash of movement in the ferns.
The foliage erupted with a flurry of talons and teeth. With a yelp, Dr. Crundworth yanked at the grime-coated zipper of his sodden safari vest. It was stuck. An enormous jaw came down like a hatchet. My guide leaped backward. For a second time, he tumbled into the stream.
The predator, an allosaurus, swung its head to stare straight at me. Those were the longest seconds of my life—and my last ones, I had been sure. My heart pounded. My legs shook. I dove for the ground, too frantic to see anything. Seconds later, the dinosaur’s carrion breath engulfed me. I rolled away and found myself tumbling down the embankment. I ploughed into Dr. Crundworth. He flailed, whacking me with an out flung arm. I seized his wrist. Steak-knife teeth bore down to spear us. With my other hand, I switched on my chrono-porter. Its hum was drowned out by the great beast’s soul-crushing bellow.
That roar cut off as the predator vanished. So did the river. There we were, back in the wilds of modern-day Montana. I blinked in astonishment.
“Let go!” Wide-eyed, the dinomancer wrenched his wet wrist from my grip. We stared at each other, shaking wordlessly.
All I could think of was how close we had come to a gruesome end. My legs wobbled. I let myself sink to the treeless, hard-packed ground, conscious of my recorder still running. Some impulse made me tap replay. My fingers trembled badly as I skipped forward to the moment after we had examined the brontosaurus eggs, when the allosaurus was upon us. The recorder had captured everything: those foul-smelling teeth, the terrifying roar, our desperation, all of it.
My heart pounded again. “No!” I stabbed the off button, swearing to myself never to play it again, much less use the recording in any indie offering. No, not ever. I shuddered, not knowing that I was to see it all again. Over and over upon waking in the darkest hours of the night, drenched in sweat.
My feet plopped down onto the soft brown sand of the Montana coast. “Wow, we made it,” I burbled. okay, not exactly a memorable line up there with “one small step for man.” No worries. When I go back home, I will come up with something that my devoted fans, and maybe even my more-numerous occasional followers on social media, will gobble up.
“Woo hoo!” Dr. Crundworth exclaimed. “We sure did. I have to remind you, if we run into any trouble, you must get yourself back to the twenty-first century immediately. Do not worry about me.” He pointed to my chrono-porter. “You be sure to keep that strapped on your wrist, Dora.” Patting an un-zippered pocket of his wrinkled safari vest, he added, “Mine is right in here.”
“Shouldn’t you keep it zipped up?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never had to cut and run from the Jurassic.” He ran a hand through his full head of unkempt hair. “You picked the best dinomancer there is.”
Dinomancer, huh? How was he anything more than a self-aggrandizing tour guide? I thought better of asking him, not wanting to seem rude. Of course, I had done enough research to know that Jurassic Dinomancy was a start-up with only a couple of short, unhelpful reviews. The company’s rates were reasonable, and I could hardly afford the top-of-the-line outfit. Naturally, I was not about to take a chance on some cut-rate operation, not when personal safety was a consideration.
“You see,” Dr. Crundworth continued, “it takes a sharp-eyed, sharp-eared dinomancer to lead you to the finest creatures in all of the Jurassic. You want to see a brontosaurus? Or a herd of stegosauruses?” Not waiting for my response, he plunged onward as he led me a short distance along the beach to a rank stream—more sludge than water—which snaked into the seaway. “Of course, you do. People can’t get enough of ’em. I know the prime viewing spots.”
Peering between the head-high ferns populating the stream bank, I said, “Actually, I’m interested in allosaurus.”
“You and me both.” My guide frowned. “Big, fierce predators are way scarcer than people imagine.”
“I came to watch it give a ferocious roar. From a good, safe distance.” I switched on my old, reliable recorder, which I wore as a body cam. I relished the thought of the zillions of new followers I was sure to attract by becoming the first person to ever capture those great beasts uttering their never-before-recorded bellows. I am sure to have it made the minute I incorporate them into my next exclusive indie offering. “They say it’s terrifying.”
“Never seen or heard one roar. They say it doesn’t. Why would it?”
I guessed, “To shout how it’s the biggest, meanest bad-ass to stomp into a clearing and terrorize the plant munchers?”
He snorted. “You think so?” Dr. Crundworth’s smartest-man-in-the room attitude reminded me of my ex.
From the opposite side of the stream came the sounds of several big beasts crashing through chest-high ferns and splintering the cycads. I turned to point my recorder in their direction.
“Stegosauruses,” the dinomancer proclaimed. Three adults, each as tall as an eighteen-wheeled tractor trailer, waddled into view, followed by a handful of juveniles. They made short work of chowing down on the undergrowth; they were like moss-green Mesozoic mowing machines with atrocious table manners. “See those mega-muscles on their haunches?”
