Dominant Species Omnibus Edition

by David Coy

  I must let them know I am not afraid, he thought. God’s will be done. I shall fear not.

  Even the alpha’s rustling voice failed to influence the blank stare.

  “You said your word weather,” the alpha rasped. “What do you know of the weather?”

  Without making eye contact with the alien, Gilbert Keefer said what he had rehearsed for days in his mind.

  “My God has given me all knowledge about the Earth’s weather.”

  The alpha studied the blank face. “Tell me of the weather,” it said.

  The next line had been rehearsed, too. So much so that Gilbert could have said it backwards. He stared, refusing to look at the demon’s face.

  “My God will make a pact with you, and I will be the agent of His will.”

  The aliens rasped and rustled at each other for a moment, leaving Gilbert propped on his scrawny knees, staring like a sphinx.

  “What is this pact?” the alpha asked, turning toward Gilbert.

  “The true believers must be spared your wrath as foretold.”

  The aliens rustled.

  “It is not possible,” the alpha said with a note of alien impatience. It held up its index finger. The sheath peeled back revealing the stinger. “How would we know these believers as you say?”

  “My God shall call them with my voice as His trumpet.”

  “You will choose?”

  “As the agent of my God, I will choose.”

  “How many of these types will you choose?”

  “One thousand.”

  “And this one thousand you and your god will keep?”

  “Yes. They will be the seed of a rebirth and a testament to the glory of my God forever and always.”

  The aliens moved away and rustled and rasped at each other for some minutes. Gilbert saw this as a good sign and thanked God for his good fortune. He looked over at the writhing ornaments on the ledge and almost smiled.

  The alpha moved back, leaving the others standing apart. When he did, Gilbert rotated his head back to the forward position, in perfect timing with the alien’s arrival.

  “How much space is needed for you and this one thousand?” it rasped.

  “One continent only,” the sphinx said.

  “Which continent?”

  The next line was also rehearsed. It was, to be sure, the most important one. Without looking at the alien demon, Gilbert Keefer spoke the words his God had placed in his care and his voice was as smooth as warm grease.

  “The one thousand shall inhabit the place called North America within the borders of latitude 10 degrees South to 60 degrees north and longitude 130 degrees West to 50 degrees East. This shall be holy land and sacrosanct. It shall be the home of the living God. As the agent of my God, I shall have all dominion over it, and its resources, and all that lives therein.”

  Having said it, he allowed himself just the slightest hint of a smile. It was so small, he was sure it didn’t show.

  * * *

  Cut me you fucker, Bailey thought. See if I care. Someday I’ll get you—you and your fucking sisters, too.

  She watched the spinning light of the cutter’s blade contact the flesh of her leg and part it cleanly. The pain rushed over her like flame.

  Fuck you! she cried in her mind. Fuck you!

  For ten hours she endured. She watched her body disassembled and reassembled by the spider-like hands of an alien being she could scarcely comprehend, and she raged silently at it to die, to burn alive and die.

  Later, as she drifted in the soaker, her mind cooled and stilled enough to regain some focus. She floated and let the little crawlers chew at the wasted tissue and glue around the incisions. She had nothing against the crawlers except that they were part of the ship. That was enough.

  She imagined dropping each one into boiling water like little lobsters and wondered if they’d scream. She decided they would and indulged and embellished the fantasy by scooping the little screamers out of the steaming pot with a strainer and eating them until she was full. What she didn’t cook and eat, she casually mashed flat one at a time on the heavy wooden cutting board with the round part of a large kitchen spoon. She would stop from time to time and scoop the mush off the table then plop it down the whirring garbage disposal.

  Ha ha.

  She saved the best for the witch that cut her open and probed her flesh.

  In this fantasy, the witch could not die permanently, but was reborn after each hideous death, with the memory of the last torment as a prelude to the next. Sometimes she would kill it slowly and painfully and deliberately, using tools from her dad’s toolbox; sometimes quickly and violently with clubs and iron pipes. Sometimes, just for sport, she would chase it from a jeep driven by a smiling Mary and whack at its ugly head and back with a baseball bat. Her favorite was putting an imagined strong and specialized bio-engineered hand up its ass and turning it literally inside out.

  Yum.

  I will escape. I will escape and live. My hatred will allow it. My hatred will sustain me.

  The seam finally opened and the vine extracted her from the pale fluid. It dropped her wet and slippery body onto the rubbery floor of the chamber. She struggled up onto her hands and knees then craned her neck out as the black tendrils wrapping her face and head fluttered away. When the thick vine slid out of her gullet she twisted her neck and undulated her head to rid herself of it.

  She collapsed there, and splayed naked, she slept.

  When she awoke, she was looking at the enormous foot of a big bastard just inches from her face. She flinched away from it and sat up, drawing herself into a wet knot. The goon was an especially nasty one. Its huge arms were covered with tattoos stretched tight like evil drawings on a balloon.

  She didn’t see him at first because he was mostly hidden by the big bastard. He was staring off into space, not looking at her. He still didn’t look at her when he spoke.

  “That could be the last time you have to go through that,” Gilbert Keefer said.

  The big bastard stared at Bailey’s naked form through the deep pits that housed its eyes. Like a rusty key, her shape fit into an old slot in some recess of its brain and, turning there, released a hot draft of anger.

  * * *

  The hose was one of those reinforced green ones, all coiled up with the cardboard packaging still wired to it. Fifty feet in length. Kink-less. Guaranteed.

  Ned slipped the hose over his arm and joined his hand to

  Phil’s on the opener. Phil looked over his shoulder and saw two or three faces staring blankly at him from the holes lining the tube. He recognized them, but had never spoken to any of them. They didn’t speak English, anyway. He had a pang of conscience about not including anyone else in the escape plans, but it was just as well. They couldn’t save them all. They’d be lucky to save themselves.

  They had Bailey’s highly detailed map to guide them. The route would take them to the far side of the section where Ned and Bailey found the shuttle-bay.

  Ned went into the tunnel first, saying he’d check it out since he knew what to look for. He was sweating profusely from the long crawl. On his hands and knees and rolling the coiled hose ahead, he started in, grunting just a little with each roll of the hose. Phil hoped to hell he wouldn’t roll it off into the shuttle-bay. When he was about halfway to the end, they heard the rush of air that signaled the opening of the vents. A moment later, they could see the far chamber walls flooded with light reflected from the Earth below—just as Bailey had described it. The light brought into sharp relief the irregular surface and left upward-streaking shadows.

  They crammed themselves together in the end of the tunnel and watched and waited. The arriving shuttle opened up like a bizarre shell, just like Bailey’s report. The opening pointed roughly in their direction, and Phil trained the binoculars on it to try to see into the interior. Suddenly, a patch of color flashed past his field of view. It was so close-up he had to put the binoculars down to get the thing into perspective. Ma
ry and Ned saw it, too.

  “Oh, God,” Mary said.

  It was a young woman, perhaps twenty, dressed in a bright red sleeveless top and neon green shorts. She was in running shoes, and had a sweat band around her head. Apparently the drug didn’t take or have much effect because she was wide awake and in full control of her motor functions.

  Phil could imagine it. One minute she was enjoying her youth and vigor and the beauty of nature—then whap. Now here she was, surrounded by giant bugs and creatures that looked more like tumors than people. She sprinted to the bottom of the ramp and continued full speed until she was stopped by the large window separating the air lock from the rest of the chamber. She ran along it, looking for any way out, any escape. She didn’t get far. One of the big bastards, moving at a surprising speed, overtook her with a giant hand on her shoulder like a parent catching a running child. It spun her around and raised a huge hand, continuing the strange impression of child and abusive parent. The woman shook her head then covered it with her arms.

  The blow came with such ferocity Phil could almost feel the shock of it from where he was. It knocked her sideways and sent her to the ground as if she’d been hit with a tree limb. She didn’t move. Nothing could have lived through such a blow.

  “Jesus . . . ” Mary said.

  “Bastards,” Ned added.

  The goon picked her up like a limp doll and threw her over its shoulder.

  They watched as the big bastards carried six more human captives out of the shuttle in net bags. Then the four of them; two from the shuttle and the two bay operators, dragged a complete, paralyzed steer down the ramp. Over the next fifteen minutes, they hauled three more steers down and out of the shuttle-bay. The gruesome process wasn’t neat, automated or mechanically assisted in any way, but it was brutishly effective. The unwieldy cargo was off-loaded solely by the muscle and strength of the chemically modified stevedores. They were perfectly suited to the task. If you needed intelligence, enormous strength, yet, some digital dexterity for finer manipulations, and good sight and hearing—then the flesh, bone, and brain of Homo sapiens made perfect stock to start with. Beef up the strength, prune and modify the brain and you’d be there. Perfect slaves.

  “They’ve done this before,” he said in a whisper to Mary. “They know exactly what they’re doing. They’re entire technology is designed to exploit—destroy. It’s their reason for being.”

  “They have no remorse,” she replied. “None. Our pain and suffering means nothing to them.”

  Dead serious, shaking his head, Ned whispered in, “That’s the scary part, they really are one-sided in their thinking.”

  At that, Phil wanted to smile and exchanged looks with Mary.

  “I guess I didn’t say that exactly right,” Ned said, seeing the exchange.

  Below, the last goon walked out of the shuttle-bay, and the large seam squeezed closed.

  They tied the hose around Ned’s midsection and knotted it. After discussing the hose and trying two or three ways to hold it, Ned settled on lying on his back with his legs pressing firmly against the ceiling of the little tunnel. Thus wedged, he could hold it easily. Phil would go first, being heaviest, while Ned and Mary held the hose.

  He didn’t have the gear to rappel, and so went down hand over hand. Wrapping the hose over one foot and under the other, he used his feet as a break. He’d explained to Mary how to break like that, and even demonstrated it, but when she actually got out into space she couldn’t quite get the hose folded into the required loop around her feet. Cussing and grunting, she slid fast down the hose with it clamped tightly between her legs.

  “Whatever works,” Phil said as he caught her.

  Ned pulled the hose back up and out of sight, then peeked out and waved. Phil waved back.

  “Don’t fall asleep—you’re our only way out of here,” Phil said.

  “Not a chance,” Ned replied.

  Phil pulled the notebook out of the back of his pants, and together they double-timed it over to the control panel.

  The control panel covered a section of wall about six feet square. It was one thing to see it drawn on a page and another to see in the flesh. Nothing was moving on it, but it looked like it was about to start squirming all the same. Looking at it, Phil wondered again what would have launched this alien science. Lack of metallic or other inanimate resources might do it, but there was more to it than that. Here was living material changed from one purpose to another as easily as human science would change sheet metal into a fender. He wondered too, if there was consciousness anywhere in that wicked-looking alien panel and prayed that there wasn’t. Not for the first time since his arrival, he felt sickened by this monstrous technology.

  Save it for another time, he thought.

  He held the drawing out so Mary could see, too.

  The panel was dominated by a structure in the center of it that looked like a cluster of thick, smooth twisted roots. About the size of a basketball, the tangle formed a nest for an iridescent blood-red ball in the center. There were other attachments or structures, some of which looked like gigantic trilobites glued to the surface. The impression Mary got was that they’d scooped up a patch of pond bottom, enlarged it and stuck it to the wall.

  “Bailey says that one opens the doors—the other one closes them,” Phil said pointing to two regular-looking openers.

  Mary consulted the drawing. “That’s right.” She reached out and pointed to the tangle of roots. “This root ball is the one that opens the hatch to space. Better stay away from it for now.”

  “Right.”

  Mary grew thoughtful. “I wonder if there’s any logic built in.”

  “Logic? Like what?”

  “Well, what if it’s possible to open the equalizing vents while the space-hatch is open.”

  Phil thought about it. “Let’s not test it.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Let’s try the doors.”

  “You or me?”

  “Go.”

  She reached out and put her hand on the opener. Both of their heads turned toward the seams in the wall in anticipation. Nothing happened.

  “Shit,” Phil said. He reached up and added his hand to hers. Their heads turned again toward the seams.

  Nothing.

  “Shit!” Phil blurted again.

  “Okay, hold it,” Mary said. “Let me see the drawing.”

  Mary studied it for a minute, looking from the drawing to biotic panel and back several times.

  “It should open,” she said.

  “It doesn’t,” Phil said.

  “Not now,” she said. “The damned thing won’t open until something else happens.”

  “What?”

  Mary studied the drawing then walked over to the huge window and looked in, scanning the interior of the air lock. She looked at the drawing again, then stood with her fists on her hips.

  “Time’s short,” Phil said quietly. He looked over his shoulder as if he expected a visitor.

  “I know that,” she said.

  She pitched the notebook to Phil and walked back over to the window. She leaned against it and looked up at the equalizing vents that ringed the inside of it.

  “It’s logical,” she said finally. “Perfectly logical.”

  “What is?”

  “Bailey sees the same thing over and over and thinks everything works just the way the goons want it. To her, the goons are in control of the whole operation. The truth is, the panel controls what the goons can and cannot do and when they can do it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Forget that this thing has veins and nerves in it, it’s a control panel. It controls a critical ship’s function—allowing the shuttles ingress and egress. You can’t just open the damned hatches in any order. That’s nuts.”

  “Okay . . . ”

  “We can’t open the seams until we cycle the air once then open and then close the space hole. Then the seams will open. If I was the panel, that�
��s the way I’d do it. Besides it fits.”

  “You mean we have to make the whole damned thing work once before the wall seams will open?”

  “Everything follows in sequence. I’d bet on it.”

  Phil mulled it over. For starters, those vents were damn loud. She was probably right; and if she were it was clear that there was more to this than just pressing some biotic buttons. There were probably indicators, too, living gauges built into the panel—gauges they couldn’t read. It could be alarmed, and there was no telling when or where they might go off. It was theoretically simple enough, bottom line was that they were about to open a hatch into cold space with a control panel they could barely fathom. There was more than a little room for error.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “I don’t either, but I don’t think there’s an option if we want to get inside.”

  They stood there looking at the panel and Phil flapped the notebook against his leg as he pondered it.

  “Can you work it?” Phil asked Mary. “You’re fairly mechanically inclined I’ve heard.”

  Mary raised an eyebrow and reached out for the notebook. Phil handed it to her then stepped wisely out of the way. Mary considered the panel. Phil could imagine her studying a truck’s engine with the same intensity.

  It looks like a tide pool, she thought. But it’s a machine all the same. I can work this thing.

  She reached out and put her hand on the trilobite thing that the drawing said opened the vents. It was an orange-sized structure, roundish with the texture of rubber, and although it looked like it might be soft, it was hard to the touch. The contact with it was immediately rewarded with the sound of a great rush of air coming from the air lock. She looked over her shoulder at Phil and ventured a very brief grin.

  “Step one,” she mouthed.

  “How do you know when all the air is evacuated?” Phil yelled over the sound. The sound was loud. Phil looked pensively toward the exit feeling sure the sound would attract attention.

  “I’ll assume that when the sound stops, the air is gone,” she yelled back with a grin.