The Rocket Dinosaur

“The board has wasted enough resources on drones and traps. It's time to invest in a solution that thinks, that adapts... that hunts.”

Lanson Fyle touched the hologram. The final slide vanished.

The quiet in the room felt very loud.

A column of soft, green light rose from a puck at the center of the table. It solidified into the shape of a woman dressed in a suit, sitting at one of the chairs. 

The Caddie. 

Her face was a perfect, pleasant oval. Her smile, though polite, did not reach her eyes. Her eyes did not blink.

Lanson stared at the hologram.

Words bubbled up in his throat. Good words. Smart words. Words to make them understand.

He swallowed them all. He said what he had to say. He waited.

The light at the base of the hologram pulsed once.

Lanson held his breath.

Though The Caddie’s mouth moved, the voice, smooth as polished plastic, came from the puck on the table. “This is good progress, Mr. Fyle. Your project is approved.”

Lanson’s mind went blank. He had planned for every single objection. He had not planned for yes.

“When will the first subject be ready for testing?” the voice asked.

“Mr. Fyle?”

“A month!” Lanson blurted. “We can have a specimen ready in one month.”

The Caddie stared at him. Empty smile. Empty, unblinking eyes. 

This time, he didn’t wait. “Though, uh,” he stammered, “We could try to accelerate the process…” 

“Excellent,” The Caddie’s plastic voice said. “We request that subject testing begin in two weeks.”

Lanson’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. We just have to catch one first.”

Hunger.

The thought woke him. He stood, his body heavy. Something hard and cold clung to his back.

He turned his head and bit the thing. It tasted like cold rock. He scratched it with his foot-claw. It would not come off.

A buzz hummed.

He shook his head. The buzz did not go away. It felt like it was in his ears.

The ground felt wrong beneath his claws. A rough, faded green, not dirt. He sniffed the air. Rotting wood and stale, still water. He stood inside a broken, wooden mountain, its splintered ribs reaching for a sky he did not know.

The wrong smells. The wrong dirt. The wrong trees. This was not his place.

The hunger returned, sharp and demanding.

The buzz in his head became a voice, a voice made of straight lines and sharp edges.

“Project Sickle Version 0001, we must return to base.”

An image flashed in his mind. Hard ground. Bright lights. Pain.

He shook his head again. He did not want to go back. He wanted to eat.

The voice paused. “ROMP system RECALIBRATING. Identifying sustenance.”

He saw it then. A rat, plump, scurrying past a pile of hard, yellow rocks.

He crouched. He stalked. He lunged. The weight on his back made him slow. The rat squealed and bolted, scrambling through a hollow log of black stone. It was too fast.

His mind screamed: Faster!

The voice in his head stayed calm. “REQUEST DETECTED. Acknowledged. Ignition.”

A pop, then a roar of fire erupted from his back. The world became a blur.

The rat zigged. A line of light in his vision showed him where it would zag through wooden railing. He closed the distance. The rat dove for a crack in the foundation of a frozen beast with peeling, painted skin. Sickle was already there. The rat soared toward safety, but toothy jaws snatched it from the air.

Lanson stood in the middle of the mess.

Glass crunched under the boots of the clean-up crews. Scientists whispered over broken equipment.

A soft, whirring sound cut through the noise.

A black puck slid into the room. It stopped at his feet. A column of green light rose from the puck. It formed into The Caddie.

She gave a cold smile that her cold eyes didn’t match.

“The subject has escaped,” she said. Her voice was not a question.

Lanson ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. We have the data, but Version One is gone. We can start again, but it will take time-”

“We appreciate your efforts, but no,” The Caddie said. “The timeline cannot change.”

“The tracker malfunctioned. There is no guarantee we will find it soon.”

“Then fix it.”

Lanson opened his mouth. He closed it.

A single, clear chime cut through the room.

A technician ran to him, holding a datapad. “A signal, Mr. Fyle. We have a signal. It’s in the old Enchanted Pirates course.”

The air left Lanson’s lungs in a long, quiet rush.

The Caddie did not move. Her smile never wavered. Cold. 

“Send a recovery team,” Lanson said, his voice a little too loud. “Now.”

He tore a piece from the rat and looked at the sky. Pinpricks of cold light stared back.

"QUERY DETECTED," the voice in his head said, flat and informative. "Stars. Balls of burning gas trillions of miles away."

He did not know what stars were. He swallowed and ripped off more meat.

As he ate, the words from the voice returned to him. Project Sickle Version 0001. The strange sounds echoed in his mind. A question without words.

"QUERY DETECTED. It is your designation," ROMP answered, and the images bloomed in his head. "Project: a planned undertaking. Sickle: an identifier." A sharp, curved blade appeared in his mind. "Like your talon." The image changed to his own foot-claw.

The word and the claw were the same. A good word.

Sickle.

"It is an efficient designation," ROMP said. "I will call you Sickle. My designation is Rocket Optimized Motion Processor, or ROMP.” More images. “To complete the project, we must return to base."

A glowing line appeared in Sickle's vision, pointing back the way he came.

He looked the other way. He felt a pull. A need to be somewhere else. He did not know where, but he knew he had to go.

A rumble shook the faded green ground.

He dropped the rat and ran. The rumble grew louder, coming from all sides.

A huge, metal beast crashed through a plaster treasure chest ahead of him. He spun, but two more flanked him, their bright lights pinning him in a circle.

Humans spilled out. They held rope webs and long, sparking sticks...

"STRESS DETECTED," ROMP said. "They are a recovery team. They are friends."

But every muscle in Sickle's body screamed. Predator. Trap. Enemy.

ROMP went silent.

The humans advanced, their sparking sticks held high.

Then the voice returned. "RECALIBRATING. Threat analysis updated. They are enemies."

A glowing line appeared in the world, a path only he could see.

New pictures bloomed in his head. Red shapes painted the humans. Lines showed him where they would move.

The rocket on Sickle’s back popped, then roared.

He was a blur.

He dodged a flung web of rope. He weaved around a sparking stick. A human swung. Sickle was gone. The stick hit another human. They fell in a pile of groaning limbs.

ROMP highlighted what looked like thin vines on the metal beasts. Sickle jumped to each one, slashing the vines apart. They didn’t buck him off as he landed. More questions without words. 

“QUERY DETECTED. They are vehicles. They do not function without humans.”

Three cuts. Three showers of sparks.

He hissed with each one. 

Then he was gone, blasting deeper into the darkness of the ruined course as the recovery team scrambled back to their feet. 

His feet carried him faster than he had ever gone before. As they carried him, he remembered. 

Home. That was it. That’s where he needed to go. 

Home. Mate. Family. 

As he ran, Sickle had many many questions without words. ROMP answered them all.

“It’s gone,” a technician said from across the room. “The security team lost it.”

Lanson smoothed his tie, though it wasn’t crooked. “Windmills,” he whispered. He turned to face The Caddie, the words catching in his throat. "We've... we've experienced a paradigm shift in retaining the asset."

The Caddie said nothing. She smiled her un-feeling smile, disconnected from her un-feeling eyes. She stepped around him and looked at the tactical screens, her holographic form flickering for a moment. 

Lanson’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Before he could find the words, The Caddie spoke, her voice smooth as hot glass. “You’ve proven it’s effective.”

“Right,” Lanson sputtered. “It’s just not doing what we want. It did eat a rat.”

“We’re tracking it, sir,” another technician called out.

The Caddie turned back to Lanson. Her unblinking eyes stared at him. Was it expectation? Disappointment? He couldn’t tell.

“We’ll send another team,” Lanson said.

The Caddie remained silent.

“We’ll send more,” he added, his voice a little too loud.

“No,” The Caddie said. “This is proving more interesting than anticipated. Send the drones.”

“But the drones aren’t equipped for safe retrieval.”

“Correct. Like you said, we have the data we need. We can start over.”

“But the timeline…”

“That’s less important now.” The Caddie turned to look out the window at the city lights below. “Let’s see where this goes. Send them out and kill it.”

The rats never stood a chance.

Sickle was a blur of tooth and claw, faster than he had ever been. He snatched them from the manicured turf, one, two, three, a feast for his family. Before, a hunt like this was work. Before, the rats often got away. Before, his family often went hungry.

Not anymore.

He held the feast in his mouth as he ran. He sped past the chrome giraffes of the Cosmic Safari course and vaulted over the miniature monorails of Metropolis Mini-Golf, making his way home.

Home. Mate. Family. 

He would teach them the words ROMP gave him. “Orb.” “Home.” And “safe.” He would keep them safe.

He reached his home: Hole 7 of the Forces of Nature course, a grassy orb that floated in the air. Sickle leapt up, and the artificial gravity of Hole 7 landed him on the green. He raced toward the hole’s miniature mountain with the miniature cave, all the while calling for his mate.

No answer.

He called again, louder, until he tore into the den.

It was empty. No mate. No children.

Sickle dropped the rats and let out a hot roar in his chest. The question formed in his mind. “Where is family?”

“QUERY DETECTED,” said ROMP. “The biological units you designate as 'mate' and 'children' were returned to the primary laboratory.”

“Take me there.”

“Acknowledged. Plotting course. Tactical assessment: the laboratory is heavily defended. What is our plan for infiltration?”

Sickle clicked his foot-claws. “Cut.” 

He turned to leave, but a new sound filled the air. A high-pitched, angry whine, like a thousand metal hornets.

Drones. Dozens of them poured into the space in front of the cave.

“WARNING,” ROMP said. “The mission profile of these units is not capture.”

Tactical data flared across Sickle's vision. Green lines plotted optimal paths through the swarm. Red squares highlighted weak points on the machines. Sickle roared, a challenge to the metal sky. The rocket on his back popped.

The drones answered with a storm of laser fire.

The rocket roared.

Sickle shot through the drones, a comet of scales and feathers. He weaved between squadrons, dodged sizzling bolts of light, and used the floating orbs of the golf course as his fortress. He took cover behind a miniature moon on Hole 3, then lashed out, tearing out a drone’s wiring and thrusters as it zipped past. 

As several drones aimed at him, he tried to leap behind another to trick them into shooting each other. The drones didn’t fire. They were too smart, their targeting too precise.

More drones fell from the sky from his slashing and slicing, but at an increasingly slower rate.

They were learning. They began to anticipate his dodges. They veered around his cover. 

A laser blast seared his shoulder. Another grazed his leg. 

Too many drones. He gasped for breath as he ran and flew.

He landed on the back of a larger drone, claws digging into the chassis, and prepared to rip its core out.

“Cease destruction protocols,” ROMP ordered.

Sickle hesitated. He wanted to slice, but he obeyed. More drones moved in.

Sickle growled.

“Wait,” ROMP said. 

“More coming,” thought Sickle.

“Shield yourself with this unit.”

Sickle crawled across the drone’s back, using its metal body as a shield. Laser fire pinged off the chassis around him. A drone directly in front of him took aim, its weapon glowing. 

Sickle closed his eyes.

Then the attacking drone exploded, the drone Sickle was on blasting it into a shower of sparks.

“SUCCESS,” ROMP said. “Hostile assets acquired. This will be easier now. I have a plan.”

Sickle felt the drone under him lurch, responding to ROMP’s commands. He looked at the swarm still buzzing before him.

“Plan,” thought Sickle. “For family.”

“Correct,” ROMP said. “Hold on. This will take a moment.”

They dove into the swarm.

The technician swiveled in his chair. “Cameras are still down, sir. But the drone fleet is returning. It appears the mission was a success.”

On the main tactical screen, a cluster of green dots, fewer than before, moved steadily toward the tower.

“Impressive,” The Caddie said, her smile and eyes eager. “The specimen destroyed thirty-seven percent of the drone fleet before termination.”

“Valuable data,” Lanson said, trying to sound in command. “Once the remains are secure, we can do a full analysis."

A chorus of growls and hisses cut him off. In cages along the far wall, a family of raptors thrashed against the bars.

One of the technicians leaned closer to his console. “Sir?”

“What is it?” Lanson asked.

“The fleet. Their velocity is not decreasing for landing.”

An alarm began to bleat. Red lights flashed across the control room, painting the faces of the panicked technicians.

“Override their approach!” Lanson shouted.

“We’re trying, sir! Their command protocols are locked!”

Lanson spun to face The Caddie. She hadn’t moved. Her eager smile remained.

Other technicians began shouting at each other, then one of them called over them all. “Too late!”

The wide observation window exploded inward.

Glass rained down. Drones poured through the opening, lasers stitching patterns of destruction across consoles and panels. Alarms shrieked. People screamed.

Riding the back of the last drone, a comet of scales and feathers, was a raptor with a rocket strapped to its back.

He leaped from his ride as it continued on, firing its lasers. The raptor landed on the tile floor, his claws making a plastic snap on the floor. His eyes locked onto the cages.

Lanson saw him from his hiding spot under one of the stations. “No!” Lanson yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the raptor running to the cages. “Security! Stop him!”

Amidst all the commotion, no one heard. 

Sickle crashed through the chaos, ignoring the frantic humans. He leaped, tearing open the cage with a single, furious claw. His mate, a sleek female raptor, bounded out, followed by their two smaller, scaled and feathered children. They nuzzled, a series of soft coos amidst the screaming alarms.

“Sagitta,” Sickle tried to say out loud, the name he’d found from the words ROMP gave him, but it all came out as unfamiliar growls. 

Sagitta cocked her head at him.

Sickle shook his head. He’d have to practice actually speaking.

Security teams swarmed in, clashing with the rogue drones. A human, clad in black, broke free from the chaos. “There! Get them!” he yelled, pointing a trembling finger.

“Time to go. Escape.” Sickle knew. But his mate and children could not fly.

“REQUEST RECEIVED,” said ROMP. “Creating optimal, on-foot route.” 

A line on the ground appeared in Sickle’s vision. He roared to his family, and surged forward. His family followed. They became a blur of green and gray, weaving through the legs of panicking humans. 

Drones clashed with security, lasers arced, and amidst it all, the raptor family darted unseen, following ROMP’s projected path.

They plunged into a maintenance vent, the tight space a momentary haven. They tracked through the maze of bending, metal tunnels until at last Sickle saw the opening to the outside ahead. 

He turned as he ran, roaring encouragement to his family, when a massive metal arm, thick as a tree trunk, smashed through the vent tunnel. It snagged Sickle, ripping him from the tube and flinging him to the ground.

A colossal robot loomed over him, its metallic body glinting. At its controls, inside a clear cockpit, was the man in black. He spoke in loud, furious noises.

“I can’t let you leave!” the man roared, his voice distorted by the robot’s speakers. “You’re too valuable! We have to study you!”

Sickle’s entire body ached. Damage notifications from the rocket flashed over his eyes. ROMP’s voice was a garble, lost in static.

He saw his family, still in the vents, peering at him through the gash created by the robot. 

Sickle roared at them.

Sagitta and the chicks remained frozen in place.

The robot turned back to them. “And all of you,” the man said. The robot’s metal arm shifted, reaching for Sickle’s family.

Sickle ignored the pain and sprang, a living missile aimed directly at the cockpit, claws extended. The man in black saw him coming and swung the huge metal arm back, aimed at Sickle.

Too slow. Sickle knew he wouldn't make it.

ROMP’s voice cut through the static. “Systems back online. Emergency thrust engaged.”

The rocket on Sickle’s back popped then gave a thunderous roar. He shot sideways, dodging the crushing blow by a feather.

The robot punched with the other arm. Sickle dodged again. ROMP highlighted weak points on the robot’s body. Sickle tried to maneuver but couldn’t find a true opening. Together, robot and raptor laid waste to the storage room. The robot’s massive limbs tearing through containers and shattering equipment as Sickle continued lunging through the destruction. 

Amidst it all, Sickle risked a glance at his family. 

Sagitta guided the chicks over the opening in the vent. She gave one last look at Sickle before continuing on.

Good.

“Maintain evasion. Family is secure,” said ROMP. 

The man in the robot saw where the raptor looked. “This changes nothing!” the man in black snarled, his voice a distorted growl. “You are too valuable to lose! I will chase you,” a metal arm smashed another box, “I will catch you,” a metal leg through a wall, “and I will study you,” metal fingers clawing up the tiled floor. “Then I’ll catch your family and all the other raptors on this planet. We’ll eradicate these rats forever! Together!”

“TRANSLATION,” said ROMP. “His intent is persistent acquisition and weaponization. My analysis suggests immediate, high-velocity departure.”

“Escape. Keep family safe.” Sickle thought, his gaze sweeping the devastated room.

“Affirmative.”

ROMP guided him, a furious dance with the robot. They burst through an access hatch, then another, until they skidded into a large, cavernous chamber. In its center, a massive, cone-shaped vehicle stood ready.

A door hissed open.

“Enter now,” said ROMP.

Sickle launched himself into the opening. The door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing thud. A digital countdown timer glowed.

INITIATING LAUNCH SEQUENCE.

“What is happening?” Sickle thought, pressing against the cold metal.

I am taking you away from this place.

“Away?”

The giant robot burst through the chamber door, tearing it from its doorframe. The man in black screamed, his face contorted.

Then the booster engines roared, shaking the entire chamber.

Sickle watched through a viewport as everything shrank below. The lab, familiar golf courses, then the unfamiliar. Vast lands. His entire world twisted and shrunk until it was a tiny, blue-green sphere. Then, darkness. Twinkling lights.

“Jump drive engaged,” said ROMP.

The alarms finally fell silent.

Heavy-lift robots hauled away twisted metal while technicians in hard hats swept up mountains of shattered glass and drone parts. The air smelled of burnt plastic and ozone.

Medics wheeled a stretcher through the debris. On it, Lanson lay still, his face pale and bruised. He looked at the towering forms of the different putt-putt courses outside the gaping hole where the observation window used to be. As he watched, he heard the clicking and whirring of The Caddie’s puck. 

He closed his eyes. What could he say?

The holographic form of The Caddie flickered into existence beside him. She looked from the destruction back to Lanson, her expression the same. Always the same. A doll’s plastic smile. A doll’s plastic eyes.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” she said, her voice smooth as ever.

Lanson’s eyes fluttered open. “Where… were you?” he asked.

“The board is… pleased,” The Caddie continued, the faintest hint of amusement in her tone. “The amount of live combat data we’ve collected is unprecedented. A rousing success.”

Lanson stammered. “Success?”

She leaned in closer to him, her form shimmering. “We’ve analyzed the telemetry from the specimen’s rocket. He wasn’t just acting on instinct. The ROMP system survived his initial escape. It was helping him the entire time.”

The man’s eyes, which had been dazed, now sharpened. He ripped the oxygen mask from his face, grabbing the arm of the nearest medic. His voice was a raw, furious whisper.

“We need to find. That. Shuttle.”