End of an Era

"Humans have to walk for exercise. It — aids our digestion."

"Ah."

I regarded the beast. "This isn’t one of the troodons that we encountered before," I said.

"True."

"But you are the same Het?"

"More or less."

"Why did you change dinosaur bodies?"

The troodon blinked. "It’s medium-rare for us to occupy the same vehicle for more than a day or two. We find it…" The rasping voice trailed off as the Het searched for the appropriate term. "Claustrophobic." It shuffled its feet. "Also, we need to leave our vehicles so that we can interact directly to share memories."

If that was true, then the Hets vacating Klicks’s and my bodies of their own volition didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t evil. I wondered…

"Tell me," the thing said casually, "where exactly is asshole Klicks?"

"What?"

"Klicks the bastard asshole. Where is he?"

"Why are you calling him that?"

"Klicks? Ah, is pun. Pun links now. His unique identifying word is Miles, but you call him Klicks, short form for kilometers." The beast tossed back its long face. "Ho ho."

"No, why are you calling him names? Asshole, bastard. Why those names?"

"Names you call him. I just — Is usage wrong?" The troodon tipped its head a little. "Your language difficult, imprecise for us."

"You’ve never heard me call him those things. He’d knock my teeth out."

"Interesting. But you call him by such words constantly. We absorb that from you."

Oh, shit. "You mean, that’s what you found in my head?"

"Yess, strong connections. Syllogism, no? All Klickses are assholes, but not all assholes are Klickses. Asshole, bastard, home-wrecker, wife-stealer, shithead, coon—"

"Coon? My God, do I really think that?" I felt my cheeks growing red. "The others are all subjective, at least. But a racial slur … I didn’t, I mean—"

"Coon not good? No, it is — ah, a reference to his skin color. It is darker than yours. That is significant?"

"No. It’s a meaningless difference — an adaptation to more equatorial sunlight, that’s all. Listen, don’t call him that, please."

" ‘That’? Why would I call him ‘that’?"

"No, I mean, please don’t call him coon. Or asshole. Or any of those other names."

"Inappropriate terms? What should I call him?"

"Klicks. Just Klicks."

"Klicks-just-klicks. Links."

Racial slurs. I felt ashamed. You think something is dead and buried, but it’s there, all along, waiting for a chance to come back to life.

Still … I was fascinated by what the reptile had said. I knew I should let the matter drop, but I couldn’t resist. "Tess," I said after a moment. "What words do you — link — to Tess?"

"Tess." The reptile shifted its weight between its two feet and a nictitating membrane passed over each of its iridescent eyes in turn. "Dear. Honey. Bunny. Sweetheart. Lambchop." I cringed at the litany of pet names. "Lover. Only-one-for-me. Lost. Stolen. Gone."

"Okay," I said quickly. "I get the idea. What about ‘Dad.’"

"Dad?" A moment of silence. "Burden."

"That’s all?"

"That’s all."

I looked away. I’m sure the alien couldn’t detect or even comprehend my embarrassment, but a wave of guilt washed over me. "What did you really want to talk about?" I said at last.

"Where have you been?"

"Out. Just walking around."

"Ah, good. Did you see anything interesting?"

"No. Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Shall I walk you back to the Sternberger?"

I sighed. "If you must. It’s this way."

"No. Go this way. Cutshort."

As in, his life was cut short, no doubt. "You mean shortcut, I hope."

"Yess."

We headed off into the woods.

Countdown: 4

A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.

—Matthew 7:18

I didn’t like being alone with the Het. Although its drawn-out skull was less than thirty centimeters long, and its teeth were tiny, it could still kill me easily enough with a bite to the neck.

The beast’s natural walking speed seemed to be about three times what mine was, but after a few minutes of it getting ahead then hopping back to join me, it matched my pace and we continued on, side by side. It was quite a hike back to the Sternberger, and I downed both Diet Cokes along the way, but all the time kept a finger on the pull-tab of my aspartame grenade.

The Het asked me an endless barrage of questions, most of which seemed innocuous. But when they’d picked me for this time-travel mission, I’d gone back and read all of H. G. Wells. A line of his kept echoing in my head: "I was mad to let the Grand Lunar know." I did my best to keep my answers neutral and nonthreatening. After a while, I figured the Het had accrued enough of an information debt that it would feel obligated to answer some of my questions, so at last I broached the subject that had been foremost on my mind. "I’m curious about your biology," I said.