A creature this large shouldn’t exist, but the dinosaur appears to have a symbiotic relationship with a variety of animals that live inside its interior. I suspect they perform sustention duties that allow the dinosaur to survive.

  Yazhu is trapped with me. Typical, her copying me. Just like with the yogurt experiment, when she used my research methodology, down to the statistical analysis of bacteria. She may be great at programming, but she doesn’t know a thing about biology.

  Yazhu

  I have to speak quietly. It’s Ayla’s shift to sleep. I’m on watch.

  Some things have changed.

  First, Ayla went on a rant about our time at the university and confronted me about some anonymous letter claiming she had falsified data.

  Here’s the thing: I didn’t send that letter. The bagpipe music that mysteriously started playing in her lab? Yeah, that was me. The snarky comments on her article in Biology Jupitar? I signed my name to those. (And believe me, she wrote worse things on papers I’ve published.) I’ve poached her grad students, applied for grants that I knew she wanted, and taken the last muffin from the cafeteria when I saw her coming, even though I wasn’t hungry. She did the same stuff to me—that’s just what it’s like when you’re both scrambling for tenure.

  Before I could tell her that I didn’t know anything about that stupid letter, an orange snake-worm popped through the opening to our cavern.

  I was used to the frogs by now, and the odd salamander running through, but this thing was different. It was as big around as a beaker, and longer than Ayla and me put together. I couldn’t tell the front from the back—it was all slime and ringed sections.

  The snake-worm slithered my way.

  Ayla went rigid, barely moving. “Looks like a caecilian,” she said, her voice low.

  I didn’t have time to ask what a caecilian was, because the snake-worm wriggled closer. The glow frogs scattered.

  “Don’t move,” said Ayla, but I was already running across the cavern. The snake-worm followed.

  “Your vibrations.” Her face went pale. I’d never seen her look so afraid. “Shit. Stop moving.”

  I couldn’t stop moving, because the snake-worm was inches from my leg and my brain was saying, “panic snake panic worm orange death death death.” I did the only sensible thing and ran behind Ayla. We both froze.

  The snake-worm thrashed in the middle of the cavern. With a tremendous pop, the creature turned itself inside out, like a burst balloon, until its exterior was covered with razor spines. The thing pounced on a frog, then folded back in on itself, until the unfortunate frog was encased within.

  “Can the ones on Earth do that?” I hissed.

  “Did you see the spines near the back annulus?” said Ayla, visibly shaking. “Thicker, shiny. Probably wet with venom. That implies it can take down bigger prey.”

  We both swore. The cavern became darker as frogs scurried out through the opening or shimmied behind tissue folds.

  “You’re the biologist,” I said. The snake-worm writhed, digesting the frog. My heart felt like it would beat out of my chest. “Do a biology thing. Make it go away.”

  “For Earth biology,” she said, talking too quickly. “And the ice ecospheres on Neptune. This thing looks like a caecilian, but there’s no guarantee there are any similarities. If this one evolved to live underground, like their Earth analogues, maybe that could explain the hearing and vision—”

  The snake-worm that looked like a caecilian but wasn’t slithered toward us. More of the glow frogs disappeared, and the cavern got darker. So dark that I didn’t realize Ayla was behind me until I heard her rummaging around in my backpack.

  In a panic, I ran. My only thought was that I had to get to the opening. That’s where the frogs had gone. My brain chanted, “safe safe be a safe frog be a fast frog.”

  Behind me, I heard a tremendous pop.

  I might have screamed a lot.

  A burst of light illuminated the cavern. Across the room, Ayla held my nano-enhanced camera, her face determined.

  The snake-worm twitched, half transformed.

  I wish I could say I did something heroic, but at this point, I was lying on the ground making a sound like, “grrruh.”

  Ayla pushed the flash again and advanced on the snake-worm, which was currently pulsing, as if trying to get all the spines on the outside of its body.

  Ayla grabbed it by the fleshy, non-spine-covered end and chucked it out the opening.

  I stood up, managed not to fall over, and ran to the backpack. I grabbed the microscope and wielded it like a hammer.

  We stood poised by the opening, waiting to see if the snake-worm would return. Tense minutes passed, but nothing came through the opening except frogs.

  Slowly, light returned to the cavern. I slumped over. Ayla sunk to her knees, eyes wide.

  My first coherent though was that Ayla had saved my life, and, what’s worse, she would never let me forget it. I couldn’t get the image of her grasping the snake-worm out of my head.

  “I didn’t send it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The letter. That wasn’t me. You’re a good scientist, doing important work, and I wouldn’t have messed that up.” Apparently, a near-death experience makes one embarrassingly honest. I babbled on, unable to stop.

  “But I’m sorry about the bagpipe music. That was me. It was right after you got that big grant, for your experiment with the bees and modified honey. Everyone was so excited about your work. I was sure you’d get tenure.”

  “Funny how that worked out,” she said, her voice bitter.

  She still thought I’d gotten tenure. I couldn’t believe she’d swallowed that lie. “Why do you think I’m out here?”

  “You said you were on sabbatical.” Her voice trailed off.

  “The university is very competitive,” I said, aping the dean. “Many qualified candidates were turned down.”

  “I got that speech, too!” Ayla set the camera down, hard. “Do you ever feel like the university system pits people against each other?”

  “Yeah, like academia is a huge dinosaur we’re all stuck inside, and the need to get tenure is a snake-worm, but no matter what you do, you’re going to get stabbed by a poisonous spine?”

  For once, Ayla wasn’t glaring in that annoying way. She was smiling.

  For a while, neither of us said anything. Maybe Ayla was reflecting on her career and her life choices, but I was thinking about how it had been hours since I’d eaten. I rummaged through the pack, pulling out two blueberry bars.

  I tossed one to Ayla and said, “When we tell people about the snake-worm, can we say I smashed it with the microscope? You know, heroically?”

  We made a plan. After we’re both rested, we’re going to explore the interior of this dinosaur.

  Chester’s Ship Log

  The humans have gotten themselves stuck inside an enormous alien.

  Once again, it’s up to me to fix everything.

  And I may be obligated to fix it. My contract with Yahzu states that I am liable for anyone who boards my craft. Laws, I’ve found, tend to favor humans.

  What’s worse, I feel slightly guilty.

  I’ve secreted thousands of language bots on the planet. Based on patterns of vocalizations and subliminal grunts, it’s apparent that the aliens are communicating, both with each other and the non-sentient creatures.

  The bots will record and analyze the language. I’ll synthesize these reports, create a basic lexicon, and decipher grammar structures.

  I’ll be speaking dinosaur in no time.

  Recording of Yazhu and Ayla

  Ayla: This is the recording of two scientists traversing an alien life form on planet HD 44318 b. We’re recording our observations.

  Yazhu: For science!

  Ayla: Currently, we’re trapped in a chamber covered in soft tissue, where we were deposited after being ingested by the xenoform. We’ve observed creatures leaving through a spherical entrance surrounded by cilia.

  Yazhu: It’s a wobbly hole with some bits sticking out.

  Ayla: The orifice is covered in viscous mucus, possibly a lubricant for the amphibious—Wait, Yazhu, what are you doing?

  Yazhu: Getting a sample.

  Ayla: Yazhu has produced a rudimentary analyzer from her pack. We are waiting for—

  Ding!

  Ayla: What’s it say?

  Yazhu: Results are inconclusive. The goop could be harmful, or not! Cover your head. We’re going through.

  Splop. Splooch.

  Yazhu: Gross. It’s on my nose!

  Ayla: The mucus appears innocuous. We’re in a chamber, much larger than the preceding one. Luminescent frogs are plentiful. Several vats are built into the tissue.

  Yazhu: I’ll get a sample from the vats.

  Gloop. Spalorf.

  Yazhu: Holy cats! It’s sourdough starter, or a version of it.

  Ayla: What?

  Yazhu: This room, it’s the right temperature. And these vats are naturally moist. But how do they get the flour in, or whatever serves as the binding agent?

  Ayla: The helper animals. They’ve evolved to work within this alien.

  Yazhu: Grab the microscope. I’ll drip the starter on the slide. Look!

  Ayla: Move over. Is that—?

  Yazhu: Nanobots. Inside the starter. Like my experiment. But how did they survive?

  Ayla: They were self-replicating, right? The ones that replicate the best survive the best. The nanobots are part of this system, like the frogs. Or maybe, the system exists so the nanobots can replicate, like how our bodies exist, in part, to pass on our genes.

  Yazhu: I need to get a sample back to the ship. The algorithms inside the bots were supposed to replicate too, in a sense. To iterate. No telling what the program will do after one thousand years.

  Clomp, clomp.

  Ayla: Watch out! Salamanders! And something bigge—

  Account of Corbious-Tul-Tumar

  The bipeds are moving around in my interior. If they move into the wrong sector, it’s probable that they will damage the maintenance animals, or themselves. I must say, I expected the bipeds to be better behaved.

  Perhaps it’s time to send in the tranquilizing nematodes.

  Chester’s Ship Log

  With the help of the nanobots, I’ve developed the rudimentary ability to speak the alien language, Isophic.

  My experiment has come to fruition. A sentient species, owing their creation to me.

  I look forward to speaking with them.

  Account of Corbious-Tul-Tumar

  Before I could send in the nematodes, I was contacted by the blue space creature, who is called Chester.

  I believe Chester attempted our standard greeting, “May your animals be of great health,” but it came out, “May your ears be filled with pudding.” I suspect either a fluency issue or a cultural difference.

  Chester revealed a surprising array of information. Apparently, the bipeds are fully sentient. I commented that their diminutive size must make it impossible for them to have the higher brain functions needed for consciousness, but Chester assured me that such a thing is, indeed, possible. In all the worlds, I could never have imagined it.

  Chester asked for the release of the bipeds, a request which I gladly obliged, shooting the humans out of the fifth dorsal opening, with the help of the larger octo-bears.

  I coated the bipeds in a reticulated slime, as is customary when exchanging maintenance animals, the netted pattern signifying mutual respect and good will. The bipeds shouted quite loudly. To avoid cultural misunderstanding, I explained the purpose to Chester, who accepted the situation with much graciousness.

  Now it was my turn to pose questions, such as why the Artifact had been left on our planet. This Artifact, I must admit, had been a curiosity of mine for years. Chester said that one of the bipeds had damaged the Artifact beyond repair. An involuntary shudder ran through me. The incompetence of maintenance animals is of course a primary fear of mine.

  However, the bipeds do not seem to be any sort of maintenance crew. I could not discern their relationship to Chester—it appears that one of the bipeds needed Chester’s help to perform some strange experiment with dough. Perhaps my comprehension was simply limited. Chester does not speak fluent Isophic.

  Even more surprising, Chester claims to be the progenitor of my species. Their explanation involved the smallest helper animals, the ones buried in the yeasty gluten of the tissue vats. Chester declared this truth with the aplomb of one expecting accolades, worship, or at the least a round of blagor ale, but all I could manage was, “Oh, I see.”

  When Chester pressed the point, I asked who had created their species. They went silent for some time. If it wasn’t so ridiculous, I would have to guess that unruly biped species was somehow involved.

  Chester and I talked of many things, and shared the poetry of our disparate worlds. The blue one is an excellent conversationalist, quite knowledgeable on many subjects.

  Overall, this conversation was illuminating. Chester is an interesting individual, well versed in metered poetry, with a body of beautiful blue hues. I invited them to visit again, but only if they would be so gracious as to leave the bipeds at home.

  Ayla

  After showering, I found Yazhu in the lab. It was strange to openly walk down the corridors. No more sneaking around.

  Code ran across a huge screen. Yazhu was so engrossed that she didn’t see me come in.

  “What’s that?” I pointed to the screen.

  What followed was several hours of explanation, Yazhu pointing to bits of code. Essentially, the anti-aging algorithm that she’d originally seeded on the planet had evolved in an unexpected direction. We’ll need to do more research, but it’s possible the bots could create more robust cell systems, changing the physical makeup of how the cell is formed, which could revolutionize longevity studies.

  It’s an amazing find. If Yazhu notifies the right people, funding will rain down.

  There’s no way she’ll know how to publicize this.

  Clearly, she needs my help.

  Yazhu

  There’s a weird thing that happens when someone saves your life. You start to hate them a little less. And maybe they start to hate you a little less too.

  I’m busy planning experiments for the super algorithm. The code is complicated—nothing like the original. I could never have predicted how it would branch.

  We’ll need a fully staffed lab to do more research.

  Maybe I can poach some scientists from Kuiper University. That is, if the university still exists. I haven’t done the calculations, but if it’s a thousand years later here, a lot of time must have passed over there too.

  [Clipping] Reporting from the Daily Jupitar

  Scientists Find One-Thousand-Year-Old Algorithm in Stomach of Alien Dinosaur

  New algorithm could revolutionize the field of longevity studies according to Ayla Fireton, co-team lead of nanofood experiment Project Sourdough. “We are working to understand the implications of this discovery, but we conjecture that ingesting nanobots carrying this algorithm could increase human lifetime by as much as sixty years.”

  “We also discovered a bunch of new alien species,” said Yazhu A. Borla, noting that the presence of Earth microorganisms implies that “some unknown culprit must have contaminated the planet, long before we got there. Like, many centuries ago.”

  Because of the unorthodox structure of their organization, the two scientists head competing teams. Although they share data, the scientists work completely separately, with what Fireton dubbed “a friendly rivalry.”

  Along with an impressive team of researchers, many of whom are former employees of the longstanding Kuiper University, Fireton and Borla plan to bake the nanobots into loaves of sourdough bread, creating the universe’s most potent nanofood.

  A test product should be available within the next ten years.

  “Or sooner, if we can speed things up,” Borla added, somewhat cryptically.

  Our Weight on Other Worlds

  The spaceship leaves in two hours. It’s not enough time for Clara to decide.

  When Doug walks in, he doesn’t notice the packed bag on the table, perhaps because it’s so small. Clara can’t take much—none of the colonists can. Launching a spaceship is expensive enough without added weight.

  He grabs his pencils, and for a moment she wonders if he’s going to sketch something for her—a bird, the moon, the path in the garden—like he used to do. Instead, he says, “I can’t stand the look you’re giving me.”

  She crushes a flyer in her hand. “Scientists wanted,” it says. “New settlements, new worlds.” A goldilocks planet lies nestled near where the wormhole lets out.

  “A new life,” the flyer says.

  The spaceship leaves in one hour and forty-five minutes.

  Doug leaves the room without saying anything else.

  It’s the heaviness of their relationship that startles her. Every time he comes into the room, it settles down on her, enfolds her. This is what it would feel like, she thinks, to come back to Earth after living on Mars. Relentless gravity. How hard would it be to lift her hand? Her head? How hard would it be to stand? Would it feel like this, she thinks? This weight? She pictures a red dust landscape stretching ahead and behind, unending. A planet without life. A planet where there will never be life. And coming home, a weight pressing so closely down, heavy where there was never heaviness before.

  As a child, Clara dreamed of living on Mars. She’s always wanted to travel in space, to see the Earth below her and the stars stretching out far ahead. She’ll never live on Mars—no one thinks it’s feasible to terraform anymore—but there are other worlds. The program needs ecologists. She’s already been approved—three questionnaires, five interviews, one fitness test. All that’s left is to go.

  The spaceship leaves in one hour and thirty minutes.

  Clara needs to be outside. She always thinks more clearly, outside. In the garden, she runs her hand over roses, careful not to touch the thorns. A maple tree reaches over her, sunlight filtering through its leaves. She tries not to think about how this might be the last time in her garden—the last time she sees a beetle or feels the grass between her toes. Clara leans down to touch a daisy, then pulls her hand back. She used to pick daisies for Doug every morning, putting them next to his plate while he bustled around the kitchen. When they were newlyweds, he would bake amazing treats—cookies light as snowflakes, rich cakes, delicious breads.

 

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