The Dinosaur Chronicles

By Joseph Erhardt

Aliens, creatures, time travel, and alternate dimensions mix with mystery and fantasy in this collection of fourteen tales by a dinosaur of a writer who still prefers old-style SF and fantasy that is carefully crafted, contains a twist or two, and provides satisfaction to the reader. For the hectic modern life, a short story is the ideal speculative fiction nibble between getting the kids serviced and dropping the car off at the day-care.

60,000 words of genre guilty pleasure. Stories include:

Edges of Memory
A man kills and forgets—utterly—that his victims ever existed; a nurse investigates and uncovers a decades-long secret. Old forces regroup to make sure the secret remains a secret.

Crawl Ice
A couple is stranded in their Colorado cottage by an antagonized creature that they can't see, and it's getting bolder and smarter as the hours go by.

The Blue Smoke Test
A scientist creates a time machine and precipitates the Ultimate Disaster. No, not that disaster. The ultimate disaster!

The Great Aribo
Two boys enter a county fair and encounter the world's greatest juggler, who holds a secret that's both wonderful and razor-edged.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Erhardt
• Release date: Dec 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386109280

Book preview

Foreword

by T. Rex

It is I, your scaly host, welcoming you to my compendium of tall tales and short excuses. If you despise forewords as much as I do, then just go—jump immediately to the meat of this volume!

Meat. Mmmm.

The rest of you might wonder, and reasonably so: Just how did a Cretaceous dinosaur survive from that era to the present day?

It’s all the fault of Mrs. Rex. No, truly. I wouldn’t kid you.

On the day of the Chicxulub asteroid impact, she had sent me into this cavern to recover more of the shiny crystal stones she loved so much to wear around her neck and on her fingers. I could never understand why, as they weren’t good for much and you certainly couldn’t eat them (I tried).

But after emerging from the mountainside that day, the sky was dark and raining fire, and the forests were burning in every direction, as far as I could see. I returned to the cavern to wait out the disaster.

The cave had water, and I could see by the glowing rocks that lined some of the passageways, but it was a hungry two weeks later before I was able to quit the mountain to find breathable air.

Nothing had survived. But burnt corpses littered the blackened tree stumps, and so food was no longer a problem for me. I lived. And continued to live, to my amazement. Only with the advent of twentieth-century science did I realize that those glowing rocks had been radioactive, and that my exposure to them had immortalized the cells of my body.

It’s been a lonely 65 million years, for the most part. Even animals that I didn’t care to eat, animals that I could’ve lived with, as pets and friends, were frightened of me. Today I have found some squirrels that let me feed them peanuts, but they still won’t take any from my lips.

With the advent of you naked bipeds—and let me tell you, you spent enough time in the trees before finally deciding to climb down—I was able to make a nice living by taking on the role of monster or dragon for kings and emperors who needed my kind of in-your-face diplomacy. It was fun, my rates weren’t excessive, and no one ever shorted me on a deal.

Since the Renaissance and the subsequent disbelief in fabulous creatures, however, I’ve had to maintain a lower profile. Also, you guys invented cannon.

As the centuries rolled by, I tried to keep myself current and involved. I read widely and maintained my education. I wrote—and write—for fun, and to entertain you lesser creatures. To keep the bill collectors at bay, I work in the information technology field.

Naturally, I telecommute.

Forward!

by Joseph M. Erhardt

Yes; it’s another foreword. Skip to the stories if you must, but return here later. (I hate the thought of abusing the keyboard for the sole purpose of talking to myself!)

The stories you hold in your virtual hands are old and new, published and unpublished, and they’ll take you to places where fact meets speculation, and fantasy meets wit. The stories are also, in a way, a writer’s journey. Today I edit professionally and am working on two novels. I rarely write short fiction any longer, but I still do—and I try to place it in the market. The short fiction market, especially the print short fiction market, is extraordinarily competitive. This is so because paper and ink—and postage—all cost money, whilst e-publishing is relatively cheap. But who can later hand a grandchild an electronic magazine and say, Here, this is my story. I wrote it and they printed it. And they paid me!

Well, paid might be an exaggeration. The number of short fiction markets that pay well enough to feed yourself by can be counted on the thumbs of both feet.

However—and this is a big however—writing short fiction hones craft. It trains a writer to be succinct, to use three words when ten are excessive, and to worship clarity—to paint for the reader a sharp picture of what’s happening in a story, and to do so without sounding like a pedant in a runaway monologue.

The previously-published stories in this anthology I have resisted editing. Once a short-story has been published, it’s almost a literary crime to make further changes to it. In a sense, it becomes a frozen image of the writer’s skill at the time he or she exposed the tale to the world, and this in the writing community is taken to be a Valuable Thing.

The oldest story in this book is The Blue Smoke Test, an over-the-top parody of various SF tropes. But I’m starting this collection with The Men with the Power, a story about two men whose paths spiral into the inevitable conflict between good and evil. It also presents the serious side of my prose, and it is also more representative of the rest of the volume. I hope you’ll find it of interest.

The unpublished stories that I’ve included are those that I’ve always felt were worthy of publication but suffered from market scarcity—most were simply too long for the publications of the day, or they fell into categories for which there simply weren’t any short markets. And yes, the unpublished stories I did stop to edit one last time before including in The Dinosaur Chronicles.

Which brings me to my alter ego. (The Guy on the Cover.)

When I first began writing and submitting work, my paying job carried with it a number of business and political sensitivities, and I worried that customers would, perhaps, think that I was not paying their needs due attention, should they discover my avocation. Some might even have thought that I was actually making money at writing and therefore didn’t really need that contract I was negotiating for.

Right.

So I used the pen name Templeton Rex, later shortened, simply, to T. Rex.

And in a way, becoming a dinosaur reflected my taste in stories: I like old-style tales that are built in the classical (antediluvian) fashion. I want a tale with a beginning, a middle, and an end that provides some satisfaction to the reader. Additionally, a plot that makes sense, holds some logic and allows for a second glance is a big plus.

To that end, I hope that the stories in this book succeed in following that classical approach. I realize that people are different, and that not all readers will like all the stories, but I do hope that you will like the greater part of them, and that, while reading these tales, I’ve managed, for a little while, to take you away from the push and press of everyday life.

J. Erhardt, 12/18/2015

The Men with the Power

The guard at the outer gate watched as the small form in the tall hat and tuxedo approached. Such a form would not, in itself, have been unusual; others in similar dress had already stopped by his station to be passed. But Forrester noted the careful, measured pace of the figure and the shiny black cane the man used to steady himself. That was odd, too. Most who attended affairs like the one now going on had the money to buy the pneumatic assists—automatic devices that could be worn underneath clothing. Canes and walkers belonged to the last century.

Other guests passed by the figure and reached the security station ahead of him, and Forrester absent-mindedly checked their names off a list and allowed them to continue. Most he knew by sight anyway. His attention remained on the man with the cane.

At length the man arrived, and Forrester got his first good look at him.

Old.

In a word, the overwhelming impression Forrester got was one of age. Wrinkles ran from the brim of the man’s hat to his tight bow-tied collar; they hung under his chin in folds. Only his jet-black eyes gave the sagging flesh any dignity.

Name? the guard asked automatically.

Zetternick, the old man rasped.

Forrester’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the alphabetically-sorted guest list. The man wasn’t on it. But the name—something about the name stirred his memory. He had been a small boy, and the world had almost come to war.

I’m sorry, sir; I don’t see your name on the list.

A simple error, the old man said, and his eyes lifted. Do I know you?

Zetternick. Forrester blinked, furrowed his brow. The Russo-Persian War! Or rather, the war that wasn’t. Could this be Zetternick? He certainly looked old enough.

I’m afraid, the guard replied, I’m too young to have been one of your acquaintances.

What is your name, soldier?

Forrester, James C., corporal, marines. The old man could get as much by looking at his tag and uniform, Forrester thought, pleased he was giving nothing away.

The old man extended a bony hand. I may not know you, my boy, but I’ve known many with your sense of duty.

Forrester took the hand, gently, and shook it.

Zetternick moved on to the inner guard station without further opposition from Forrester, and if Forrester wondered why he had not stopped the man, it was in a subconscious part of his mind that would not surface for some time.

Nor, of course, did Forrester notice the old man casually wiping his right hand against his tux.

—

Zetternick approached the inner guard station and the scene, with variation, was repeated. The guard let him through. As the old man entered the long, two-story Victorian edifice, he handed his card to the announcer, who goggled first at Zetternick’s cadaverous appearance and a second time at the name on the small, stiff piece of paper.

The announcer choked, His Excellency, the former ambassador, Walter Westcoat Zetternick!

The announcement killed the conversation in the chandelier-lit hall. Eyes turned in his direction; mouths flew open in surprise. Here, in this room, the people still knew his name. And although his left ear rang with unrelenting tinnitus, his right ear picked up the whispers that rose above the music that played softly in the background.

Zetternick? Could that be Zetternick?

I thought he was dead!

He’s not far from it.

The old boy’s got to be a hundred! He was eighty when that Russo-Persian thing went down ...

Zetternick nodded his thanks to the announcer and gave up his hat to an attendant. Cautiously he worked his legs and cane down the two shallow steps into the reception hall. The walk from his car to the house had taken a toll on him, and he breathed uneasily. But he worked to hide his weakness. He hung a smile on his wrinkles and extended his hand as the first of the assembly approached.

She was not a woman Zetternick recognized, and too young to be a major player. He shook her hand, and she introduced herself as an undersecretary in the State Department, adding, Secretary Halstead and Chinese Premier Zhiang are still en route from Beijing. That’s why I’m here tonight, representing us. Thrust into the gap, as they say. She grinned and added, Or perhaps into the pit, with the lions. I suppose the Department called you here for the same reason?

Zetternick let his hand brush against his trousers. I cannot say, he smiled and winked, just who it was who called me here. The parry, as given, would satisfy the lurid imaginings of a younger diplomat.

Zetternick turned to the others who had gathered to meet him. The rest of the guests had already resumed their interrupted conversations and were presently ignoring him. Of those who moved to greet him, most were inconsequentials—cultural attaches and third and fourth ministers who knew him only by reputation. But at the end of the line one man waited whom Zetternick did recognize, and after finally shaking that hand, he said, Hold a minute, will you, Henry?

The stocky man with the military bearing nodded, and Zetternick flagged down a passing waiter, hoping the shake in his arm wouldn’t show. He lifted a glass of champagne with his right hand as he fished a tablet from his watch-pocket with the other; his cane he held hooked over his left wrist. A moment later, having chased the pill with the liquid, Zetternick turned back to his acquaintance. At my age, Zetternick said, tablets and capsules supply the greater portion of my fiber.

Major Henry Cheswick-Howell smiled, then sobered once more. The situation’s not so bad that they dragged you out of retirement, is it?

I came of my own accord, Zetternick said flatly.

It’s that bad, then. Cheswick-Howell sighed and glanced at a wiry, weather-beaten man standing in the corner of the great hall, a man who had clustered around him a small but rapt audience of listeners. Nojon thinks he’s the incarnation of old Ghengis, and he’s ready to prove it. But I don’t understand it, Walter. The Mongolian-Siberian combination has some kind of logic to it, geographically at least, but I’d always thought the Kazakhs had more sense—certainly enough to stay out of it.

Influence, Henry. Zetternick took another sip of his champagne. And history. Bad political unions often come in threes, though I’m not certain why.

Do you think the States will support China in this mess? Militarily, I mean?

Zetternick nodded. They’ve no choice. China’s too large a market to have a portion of it devastated and annexed by the Combine. And the People’s Republic would never have stood down militarily if it hadn’t been for the Sino-American defense pact, so there’s a moral commitment as well.

For as much as moral commitment has value in a political crisis, Cheswick-Howell said dryly. Are you going to be at the conference tomorrow?

Zetternick smiled weakly. I have no standing. And tomorrow I shall be elsewhere.

As Zetternick sipped again, a third man joined them. White-haired, with a trace of original thick blond waves, the man offered his hand, which Zetternick graciously took. Later, he again casually smeared his right hand against his cummerbund.

The third man introduced himself as Petyaski, undersecretary attached to the Russian mission. He said to Zetternick, It is an honor to meet you, Ambassador. Even after all these years, your efforts in the disagreeable Persian affair are still a matter for discussion in my country.

Zetternick bowed slightly. Not ambassador any longer, my friend. But how is Mme. Kharkova?

Petyaski glanced at Cheswick-Howell. Zetternick said, He’s all right.

Petyaski answered, The Ambassador is in Hanoi, as you suggested. She still has influence with old Ho, and she may be able to keep the Vietnamese out of the coming conflict. Perhaps.

Wolves, Cheswick-Howell muttered. The Norasian Combine threatens the Sinos and all the other border countries sit ready, salivating, just waiting to take their piece. I understand the Indians have troops massing—

Shhh, Zetternick advised as a dark-skinned, turbaned man approached and passed. Fine now. Yes, I know about the build-up.

You have kept yourself remarkably informed, Petyaski said.

Zetternick ignored the compliment. Have you seen Gauchard?

Both Petyaski and Cheswick-Howell shook their heads. The major said, He likes to come in late. Gives him a better entrance. More dramatic.

Petyaski nodded. M. Gauchard appears pleasant, but everywhere he goes—

Trouble follows, Zetternick finished. I tried to meet him once, do you know? I was vacationing in Paris eight years ago, during the Algerian crisis. But my attempts were unsuccessful.

He was working for the Lybians then, Petyaski sniffed, just as he works for Nojon now. A man without loyalty.

Technically, Cheswick-Howell corrected, he works for the Combine as a whole, in the federal branch of their foreign office.

But Nojon gives him direction, Petyaski countered. You never see him sidling up to the Kazakh or Siberian ministers.

Nojon is the driving force behind the Combine, the major agreed, and as he and Petyaski traded comments, Zetternick put down his champagne and worked his legs and cane in the direction of a dark-skinned, sharp-featured man with heavy lines etched into his face.

It took Zetternick the better part of minute to cross the twenty paces. First, he had to avoid bumping into others moving more swiftly and less carefully, who crossed his path. And second, the bright lights and reflections—reflections that poured off glasses and mirrors and shiny metal shelving—were smearing in his vision, a side-effect of the tablets in his watch pocket.

First Minister Ben-Aban started when Zetternick addressed him. The Kazakh could hardly have missed seeing the old man approach, no more than a man sitting at a railroad terminal could miss seeing a train grow large in his face.

It was a measure of Ben-Aban’s preoccupation.

Zetternick shook the man’s hand. It is not a happy time, is it, M. Minister? Zetternick quietly wiped his hand against the side of his trousers.

Ben-Aban spoke directly. Will you be there tomorrow—at the conference?

Zetternick shook his head.

Pity. There might have been hope, like in Baku—

My efforts in the Persian crisis have been exaggerated, Zetternick interrupted gently. Inwardly, he remembered the strain that crisis had put on him, how in fact spreading his influence across so many angry people had nearly killed him, and how the Baku conference had led directly to his retirement. In his current state of health, he could never survive the tensions of the upcoming Sino-American-Norasian summit.

Ben-Aban stared into the old man’s eyes. Then why are you here?

Zetternick spoke carefully. Gauchard takes much heed of what Nojon says.

Nojon is President of the Combine at this moment. That is to be expected.

And Gauchard draws his pay from Combine accounts.

Ben-Aban only blinked.

Kazakhstan is not a poor country, M. Minister. Zetternick paused, waiting for the man to blink once more. With the oil flowing easily, Zetternick added, and the uranium deposits now being mined, there are funds that could be used to greater influence—to make certain the Kazakh point of view is heard in the Combine foreign office.

Ben-Aban blinked a third time.

Zetternick offered his hand once more, and Ben-Aban took it.

—

Zetternick found the Siberian minister’s attitude more sanguine than that of the Kazakh Ben-Aban. With the discovery of accessible on-shore oil, and with the new platinum deposits near the Pacific coast,