Walter Jon Williams - Dinosaurs

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DINOSAURS

By Walter Jon Williams

[05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]

Let us not deceive you--this is not a tale of the prehistoric and there are no dinosaurs as such in it. This

is a tale of a very far future and of a highly evolved and changed human being. It is also, in its own

subtle way, a tale that lives up to its deceptive title.

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 ribbon 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."

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Walter Jon Williams - Dinosaurs

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