Dominant Species Omnibus Edition

by David Coy

  “I’m down,” he whispered.

  “What’s it look like?” Habershaw asked.

  “It’s quiet. Empty. I guess no one’s got the nerve to be in here at night. Not that I can blame them. This place is straight out of Hell.”

  “Can you see anything that looks like a human medical facility—anything remotely like a clinic?” Donna asked.

  “Not yet,” he said. He stood up a little higher and looked. There were clusters of human equipment mixed in throughout the alien stuff. There were tables, carts, racks and benches everywhere. Some of it was hooked up to the alien devices, wired in, probing them—the tools used to cut and probe and examine were now themselves being cut and probed and analyzed by another, equally alien, science.

  Against the far wall was a group of two-meter-high partitions formed into a maze of cubicles, clearly human and brightly lit by a framework of lights suspended from above. His position was slightly higher than the cubes, and looking over the tops, he could see equipment in some of them. As he watched, he saw a brief movement, just a flash of blue in one of the cubes to the right, then nothing.

  “I’ve got something here,” he said. “There’s a cluster of open rooms on the other side that might be something. Somebody’s there. I’m heading in that direction.”

  He unslung his rifle, cycled the bolt and took the safety off. Staying low, he worked his way toward the cubes. His confidence was up, and he double-timed the distance. He approached at the point where he saw the movement, stopping behind an equipment rack just three meters from the doorway. Giving a final look around, he moved up to the door. Then, clinging close to the wall, he peeked slowly inside.

  He saw the feet first, at least three of them at the end of the bed. One foot was gyrating around the ankle, the toes pointed, increasing the impression that he had stumbled on a couple in a sexual embrace. He was about to turn and find another way in when he decided to take a better look.

  He blinked to clear his vision because something had to be distorting it.

  The thing was tied down with thick straps that formed a net over it. Each strap buckled tight to a steel railing that went around the bed, a square platform a meter off the floor, replete with a soiled white sheet that had shifted and hung down on one side. The entire apparatus was just large enough to contain the organism. As the thing struggled, the hooks holding the straps made slight metallic noises against the railing. Tubes ran into it from bottles above and a variety of wires probing here and there were connected to a rack of monitors and recording devices. He’d listened to Habershaw’s descriptions of the things he and Lavachek had seen dumped into the pit, and in his mind’s eye had seen those creatures as pitiful. The thing on the table wasn’t pitiful—it was abominable, monstrous.

  He wanted to move, to run, to distance himself from it. Its form reached deep inside him and twisted. But he felt some pull from it, some strange tugging at his spine, and he moved toward it.

  As he got closer, he could see that it was actually three or four human forms blended, molded together as if each were made of soft wax. The joints were smooth where one blended with the next. He got the distinct impression that much of the bones, the supporting structures were missing, giving the creature a squirming, blob-like appearance. It was difficult to distinguish some of the parts, but he could make out a shoulder here or ribs there if he tried. There were breasts and nipples and hands that touched them. Legs wrapped around legs like vines and arms moved over flesh from unnatural locations. The entire organism was covered with sweat that ran around and down muscles in rivulets. As the muscles pulsed and contracted the entire organism seemed to spasm. He could hear the sound of labored breathing and the heavy scent of human musk filled the air. The way the organism moved suggested that some grinding, primal force provoked the motion—but whether the writhing action was the product of sexual desire or the need to escape was unknown.

  “Jesus . . . ” he said.

  “What is it?” Donna asked.

  “I’m looking at one of those things Bill talked about. You wouldn’t believe it. The people who did this are mad, crazy.”

  He leaned in to get a closer look near the area producing the breathing sounds. There were at least two heads there and two of the mouths were joined as if formed in a mold, locked in an unending kiss. There were eyes open wide and staring with urgency as if the entire organism was in flight from some unseen predator. A set of eyes flashed up at him as he watched, fixed him with the same feverish hunger; the same burning desire.

  Suddenly a hand shot out from under the net and grabbed his wrist in a sweat-slickened grip.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s happening?”

  The fingers clutched at his skin, kneaded it urgently. He couldn’t tell if the touch was a plea for help or the result of some appalling desire. He grabbed it with his other hand and wrenched free of it. The arm disappeared like a snake in the folds of wet flesh.

  “Nothing. It’s all right. Nothing.”

  The thought that Rachel might be part of that appalling mix made him weak with fear, and he looked for some evidence of her in it. He looked at the eyes again, searched them for some sign but saw nothing recognizable.

  He looked again at hands, then feet, then mouths and limbs, looking for some pattern, some signature of her unique design in that fleshy amalgam.

  Finally, satisfied that none of his lover’s anatomy had contributed to the thing, he left it there to breathe and writhe.

  He moved to the next room. There was another of the organisms on a similar raised platform. But this one was different. Where the other one was intensely alive, squirming and wriggling with seeming abandon, this one barely moved at all. The limbs flailed in slow motion as if it were a toy that had run down. It was disconnected from the equipment around it.

  “This place is a nightmare,” he said into the mouthpiece. “They’ve got these things all over the place. They must piece them together using the Verdian technology, then move them in here to watch how they do. They’re experimenting.”

  “Experimenting at what?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. This is some very sick shit, Donna.”

  When he walked into the next room, the rifle in his hands came up instinctively to point at the blue robe in front of him. The man was turned away from him, but he could tell from the bent posture and the hearing prosthetics behind the ears that it was Jacob. He was standing next to a sheet-covered body on a gurney. John almost smiled. He had the main sonofabitch right at the end of his rifle.

  “The one you just saw didn’t work out so well,” Jacob said, not turning. “Most of them don’t. But we’ve had some near-successes. I think you saw one of those as well.”

  “Is that what you call them? Successes?”

  “Who’s there?” Donna said into John’s ear.

  “The Grand Poobah,” John said.

  “I suppose he can hear me,” she said.

  “Yes, I can,” Jacob said.

  “Kiss my ass then,” she said loudly. “Shoot him, John.”

  Jacob’s head rose up slowly and turned away from the sound.

  John stepped around the gurney, keeping the rifle trained on the blue-robed figure. When he came around far enough, he could see that it was Rachel under the sheet. The sheet had been pulled down, exposing her thighs. She was unconscious, and a single tube ran into her arm from a bottle suspended above. The cuts on her face and chest were gone, and her skin shone as if it had been polished. She’d never looked more beautiful. The sight of Jacob’s long and gnarled hand on her smooth belly filled him with rage. “Get your hand off her,” he demanded.

  Jacob’s sagging eyes met his and the hand slowly drifted off her, trailing long fingers like dry roots.

  “I know this woman,” Jacob said.

  “You should,” John said. “She saved your sorry ass. If it wasn’t for her, you’d be dead.”

  “God moved her hand,” Jacob intoned.

  “Huh?�
��

  “God moved in her, and she obeyed. Glory to God.”

  “God had nothing to do with it.”

  “Shoot him, John,” Donna said.

  “God’s hand guides all things great and small,” Jacob said. “His will is the force of the universe—His glory is the light and the way.”

  “Is that why you’re making these, these—things—for the glory of God?”

  “It is better to marry than to burn with lust. It is better to cleave to your wife than to think wicked thoughts.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “God has shown me the way.”

  “You’re nuts—move away from her.”

  “You should shoot him right now,” Donna’s voice said, “and do us all a favor. Kill it before it breeds.”

  “What?”

  “Kill it before it . . . ”

  “I heard you,” John said as the thought sank in.

  John looked into the drooping, slack-jawed face before him and was stunned by the profound perversion behind those black eyes.

  “Is that why you come down here—clear the place out—at night—to mate with these things?”

  “Aw, Christ,” Donna groaned in John’s ear. “Shoot it!”

  “Go forth and multiply,” Jacob said and swallowed with his mouth open. “This is God’s command.” He reached up and his long fingers untied the clasp at his neck.

  He pulled the robe off his shoulders and let it drop. Standing there naked, he stretched his arms out. The sight filled John with a quick squirt of nausea.

  “What are you doing?” John asked.

  “What’s he doing?” Donna asked.

  “He took off his robe. This bastard is nuts.”

  “Shoot it!”

  Staring at John with a glazed expression, Jacob started to climb onto the narrow gurney—and mount Rachel. The look on his face was a sick mix of sulking fear and daring, and reminded John of a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, eyes wide, smelling a shameful spot. “Get off her!” he yelled.

  Jacob continued to position himself, bringing his other scrawny leg up on the gurney.

  John raised the rifle to his shoulder and put the sights in the center of Jacob’s chest.

  He fired.

  The bullet put a single dark hole in the grayish skin and a spray of red splattered the equipment behind him.

  “Yes!” Donna’s voice said.

  Jacob fell slowly off the gurney and crumpled onto the floor, one hand clinging to a shiny cross-member.

  “Is it dead?” Donna asked. “Is it dead?”

  John moved up to get a closer look. Jacob was lying face up with his eyes open and his mouth agape, looking not too different than he did when he was alive. A little pool of dark blood had formed under him, staining the robe. John reached down and felt for a pulse in the flaccid neck. The flesh was still and lifeless. “I’d say he’s dead,” he said.

  “Hallelujah,” Donna said, then added, “Shoot it again, just to be sure.”

  “He’s dead,” John said. “I’ve made enough noise.”

  He put his hand on Rachel’s forehead and felt its smooth warmth. Then he shook her shoulder gently.

  “Rachel. Rachel, wake up,” he said.

  “Tell me what’s happening,” Donna said.

  “She’s under some drug—some anesthetic or something. There’s a tube running into her arm.”

  “Read me what’s on the bottle,” Donna said.

  John read the label. “Narcoline HCI,” he said.

  “Well, she’s not gonna wake up for a while, that’s for sure. You’ll have to carry her.”

  “Carry her where?”

  “Take one of the tubes leading out of the lab. Just go. Go farther in and hide until we can figure out how to get you out.”

  “That could take a while,” he said.

  “Hey. Don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something,” she said.

  “Don’t think too long,” he said. “Can you fly the shuttle down, Bill?”

  “If it’s machinery, I can work it,” Habershaw said.

  “Just be gentle on the stick. Don’t let it get away from you. Left stick for vertical lift. Right for pitch, yaw and acceleration.”

  “You’d better get going and stop sweating the little things,” Habershaw said. Then there was a burst of static and Habershaw’s voice was lost as static flooded the channel.

  “Hello?” John said, tapping the transceiver. “Come in. He tapped the device and adjusted the volume. “Damn it!” He knew what it was, Habershaw had turned the shuttle on and the suspensor generators had warmed up and were now swamping the headset’s lame little power band. They’d be out of touch until Habershaw shut the system off.

  John pulled the needle out of Rachel’s arm. A trickle of blood ran out after it. He plucked her clean clothes off a rack, picked up her boots then rolled them up in her clothes and put the whole bundle on her. He gathered her up and with a heave, lifted her off the gurney. He’d been carrying her unconscious form from one place to another ever since they’d met, it seemed. She hadn’t gotten much lighter.

  He picked a darkened tube in the wall fifty meters away and started for it. It was as good as any.

  * * *

  In the shuttle, Habershaw cut the wire and let it fall into the shaft, then closed the hatch and locked it. He moved back to the pilot’s seat.

  “Are you sure you can fly this?” Donna inquired rather nervously.

  “Oh, I can fly it,” Habershaw said, fiddling with the controls. “Not good, you understand—but I can definitely fly it.”

  “Good enough not to kill us?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “I could lie to you about it.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Then buckle up,” he said. Then, “John? Was that the right stick for pitch and yaw, you said?"

  Nothing.

  “John?”

  “Come in, John,” Donna said.

  Silence.

  “Well, so much for support,” she said. “Screw it, we don’t

  need it. I think he said left for pitch, yaw and whatever.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Habershaw said, putting his hand on the right stick.

  He pushed it forward. There was a groan in the shuttle’s frame as it tried to dip down into the monolith’s top with five thousand kilos of force. He pulled the stick right, and it pivoted, grinding around in a tight circle, the skids cutting a deep gash.

  “Whoops, wrong stick,” Habershaw said.

  “Very wrong stick,” Donna said, her eyes closed.

  Habershaw pushed the other stick gently forward and the shuttle lifted off the monolith in a straight, vertical ascent. He watched the altimeter until it gained another thousand meters and then pushed the other stick forward. The shuttle’s nose dropped, and it raced off, gaining speed.

  “Not bad, Habershaw,” Donna said, more or less relaxing in her seat.

  “Shit these things are easy to fly. I’m surprised they pay these pilots down for this kind of work.”

  “Where are we heading?”

  He checked the compass. “Northeast, according to this.”

  “Don’t change course,” she said. “Just find a place up ahead and duck into it. I need some time to think.”

  * * *

  John marched down the tunnel with Rachel’s limp form in his arms like so much meat. One of her arms hung down and swung as if jointless as he walked.

  The tunnel turned to the left some distance ahead. By the time he got to the turn, Rachel’s weight was taking its toll. He waited until he was well around the bend and out of sight before he put her down to rest his arms. He was drenched with sweat.

  “Rachel,” he tried with a gentle shake, “Baby—wake up.” She remained in a deep stupor, her eyes closed and her mouth slack.

  There was another sharp left-angle turn a few meters up. He hefted her and trudged on again, hoping he coul
d find another place to stop very soon. The next length of tunnel formed a “T” not twenty meters ahead. He took it right. He continued to turn right at each turn without fail. That way, he figured he could find his way out of the labyrinth of tunnels quite easily, when the time came, by turning left each time until he came to the long straight one he’d taken first. He went about twenty meters more and picked a small chamber. He went in, put Rachel down, covered her neatly with the sheet and propped her head up on the clothes bundle. It was fair cover, and a good enough place to hide until Rachel woke up. If he moved up to the last bend, he had a view of at least thirty meters in a straight line down the tube with no chambers on either side as cover for an advancing offensive. He estimated he had traveled at least three hundred meters. It would have to do.

  * * *

  Habershaw was doing a good job of flying the shuttle and was quite proud of himself. Donna figured it was because he was going in a straight line. There was a test coming, however.

  “Up ahead,” she said. “Slow down and drop into that depression in the canopy. They’ll never see us in there.”

  Habershaw slowed the vehicle to a crawl then stopped directly over the depression. Using the other stick, he brought the shuttle down through the canopy. Branches broke and scraped at the shuttle’s hard skin as it descended. A moment later the craft stopped with a bump on the jungle floor.

  “Not bad,” Donna said.

  “A rig’s a rig,” Habershaw said knowingly. “This one just happens to fly is all.” He shut the system off and the shuttle interior was cast into darkness except for a splash of moonlight here and there, just enough to see by. “Now what?” he asked.

  Donna closed her eyes and leaned her head against the side window for a moment. She felt a thousand years old.

  It was as if the planet had been beating on her for the entire last year, giving her a relentless pounding for something she didn’t do. It wasn’t fair—and the beating wasn’t over yet. Her family, what there was left of it, was trapped in that goddamned giant plant surrounded by mercenaries and far-beyond-insane religious zealots, and the only positive thing that had happened in recent memory was that the asshole Jacob was dead. That could slow the nest down a little, maybe confuse them until they could find someone else to be their mad king.