Dominant Species Omnibus Edition

by David Coy

  “How . . . ?” she smiled stupidly.

  “We jammed the frequency. The technology is decades old,” Ryder laughed. “You could push your little button all day with the same result. You really would have done it. For what it’s worth, I’m not surprised. Amazing. God be praised, God be praised. Hallelujah, God be praised.”

  “Fuck you . . . ” she said weakly.

  “Feeling warm yet?” Ryder chuckled.

  “Fuck you . . . ”

  “I hear it’s a horrible way to die,” he said.

  “Tell them we’re coming out,” she said weakly. “Tell them to stop, Ryder.”

  “Sorry.”

  Joan threw the phone against the wall. It shattered into pieces. Then she threw down the detonator and stomped on it three or four times. Then she shoved past Donna, pushed Fabino out of the way and threw open the door with a bang. She held up her hands and started down the steps.

  “Oh, God…” Rachel groaned.

  Donna, her senses on high alert, seemed to look at everyone in the room at one time. “This is just fucked!” she blurted.

  “Hold your fire!” Joan yelled from the steps. “We’re coming out!”

  From John’s vantage, he could see through the open door and down the street some fifty meters to where a knot of soldiers had gathered. In their dirty, ragged uniforms they looked like the stumps of plants jutting up into the morning slant light. Something about the way they were standing was odd, and it took him a moment to make out that one of the men was attached to the largest portable weapon he’d ever seen. It hung off his torso by a frame-like affair that looped over his shoulders. He was bouncing slightly, adjusting it while the others tightened the straps on either side of the frame. They were working fast.

  “Joan!” he yelled. “Come back inside!”

  Joan walked a few more paces toward them, then stopped, her arms still high in the air. “Don’t shoot! It’s okay! We’re coming out!”

  “What’s happening?” Fabino asked.

  “Shut up! Joan! Come back!”

  “What’s that?” Donna asked, looking out. “What is that thing?”

  “Oh, man!” Fabino said. “They’re gonna cook us!” He dashed by John’s rifle and hit the stoop running. He leaped off and hit the ground, stumbled and fell, just a few meters behind Joan. As he was getting to his feet, the air was filled with a deep thump sound, followed by a thrumming that reverberated through flesh and bone.

  Joan’s arms went out in front of her as if to ward off some invisible attacker, then they started to flap at the air as if the thing was right on her. She turned and tried to run but the broad beam of the weapon was all around her and stayed on her as she dodged back and forth, stamping her feet and waving her arms. Her scream was high-pitched, pitiful and blessedly short. She fell to the ground, flailed for a moment, then died. Fabino screamed, too, as the beam splashed over him, searing him from the inside out—quite by accident.

  John could see the slight interference pattern, like heat waves, but horizontal, as the weapon’s energy filled the air in front of the shelter. The beam drifted over Joan’s steaming body, heating it like meat in a cooker.

  They’d seen it all from the window. “Christ!” Donna screamed. She turned in a circle, not quite sure which way to bolt.

  Rachel went to her knees and scooted under the table.

  Suddenly the beam and the sound were gone. John could see the team marching forward as if invulnerable. The one holding the heavy weapon was slightly ahead of the other two, his feet pointed out and his legs wide. They were moving up to get a better angle on the shelter, to broadside it. The one in front had a big smile on his face. It crossed John’s mind, just briefly, that a big, ugly and fearsome weapon like that might make you stupid with a sense of power—very stupid.

  He moved quickly to the doorway and shouldered his rifle. He put the crosshairs in the leading man’s chest and fired a single shot. A red mist filled the air behind the soldier, and he crumbled forward, his arms and torso tangled with the weapon. John fixed his sights on the one on the right and fired. The first shot hit the man’s face and his head burst with a cloud of blood and bone. As he was falling, the second shot hit him high in the chest and he fell flat. The third soldier was already running for cover. John put the crosshairs on his back and fired. The man fell while running, limp and dead.

  Fabino was still alive. He lay there, legs splayed, his body vibrating from shock. John put the rifle’s sights on his head and fired. Next, he trained his rifle on the horrid cannon itself. He shot a dozen rounds into it, sending pieces of it flying, leaving it smoking and throwing sparks.

  The truck was just outside the door and a few meters west.

  They could make it if they moved now. John grabbed the soldiers' weapons and tossed one to Eddie and one to Rachel.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

  “Just hold it for me, goddamn it!”

  He gave a quick look up and down the street. It was still clear, but wouldn’t be for long. “Get in the truck! Go!”

  They scrambled under his rifle, down the steps and into the truck. He ran out after them and clamored into the driver’s seat. He turned the vehicle on, jammed the wheel right and the accelerator to the floor. The tires raised a cloud of debris as the truck sped off.

  “Where to!” Donna yelled over the tire’s scrabbling.

  “Anywhere!” he yelled back.

  The truck bounced over the uneven ground, sending the occupants banging against the ceiling. When he reached the end of the street, he turned east and headed out across the clearing. Two soldiers watched the truck speed by with mild interest, too ignorant to know the quarry they sought was inside it. “Slow down!” one of them yelled.

  “Where are we going?” Rachel yelled.

  “As far away as we can get!”

  They’d gone about half a kilometer when the armored transport raced up on them from behind. It came up so fast Rachel would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking behind them. The craft buzzed past low enough to touch. The suspensor fields raised their hair and dragged across their skin like rough cloth.

  “Damn!” John said.

  The craft swung out and circled around in a long arc, finally coming up alongside the speeding truck. John tried a few maneuvers, zigging and zagging this way and that, but the shuttle wouldn’t be so easily shaken.

  “Shit!”

  “What are we going to do?” Rachel asked, in complete panic.

  Before anyone could answer, the side door of the shuttle slid open, revealing two soldiers braced in the door, rifles aimed squarely at them. It was useless.

  “Stop the truck!” one of the soldiers yelled.

  John slammed on the brakes. “Shit!” he said.

  The shuttle reared up its nose and stopped right next to them. “Get out!” the one yelled.

  “What do we do?” Donna asked, her hands stiffening on the rifle.

  “They’ve got us. We give up.”

  “Bullshit,” Donna said. “I say we go for it.”

  “They’ll cut us to pieces,” John said.

  “Get out of the truck, now!” the soldier ordered.

  Donna spoke quickly. “The jungle’s just a hundred meters away,” she said. “If we can make it, we stand a chance. They’ll never be able to follow.”

  “Get out and get on the ground!”

  “Okay, we’re getting out,” John said raising his hands.

  He did a mental calculation. He could swing the truck under the shuttle and be headed out the other side in three seconds. He knew the shuttle model; it was sluggish out of the gate. It would take a full five seconds for it to turn and get up to speed. By then, they would be halfway there.

  He stomped on the accelerator, cranked the wheel and jammed the truck under the shuttle. The suspensor fields cloyed at the truck, slowing it slightly. The sound of rifle fire mixed with the hammer blows of the bullets in the truck’s bed made Rachel yelp.<
br />
  “Get down!”

  The truck burst free of the suspensor’s mud-like fields and sped toward the green. They were almost up to full speed as the jungle approached. Rifle fire reached them, and John heard the hiss of bullets flying past the cab.

  The truck raced toward the solid wall of green. There wasn’t a lot to choose from, but he picked the softest looking spot and hoped there were no heavy roots or tree trunks in it.

  “Hang on!”

  The truck crashed into the jungle with a tremendous sound of branches and heavy vines slapping and banging against metal. John kept the accelerator down as the truck bounced and crashed and groaned through the thick undergrowth. He glanced into the mirror and saw the shuttle turn sideways and slide to a stop just meters from the hole the truck had punched out.

  The escapees crashed forward. The tunnel closed behind them as the foliage partially reclaimed the space.

  The truck slowed, then came to a stop with a bump against something solid, tossing all of them forward. John’s head banged against the steering wheel, stunning him.

  The jungle had swallowed them whole.

  “Get out . . . ” he said. “Run . . . they’ll be coming . . . ”

  11

  It was a dream. It had to be. Nothing could really be this good. Betty had felt this kind of pleasure many times, but never like this! This brand of pleasure was her favorite thing. Before her conversion, it had been the thing she sought in secret, and the thing she dreamed about. She’d been doing it since her teens with one group or another. But it was so strange—she couldn’t be sure—she didn’t know if she was alone or not. It was the strangest feeling. All she knew for sure was that this was almost too much. She giggled in her head and felt wetness. This was the best!

  Oooooo . . . more . . . more . . . more . . .

  The pleasure wriggled against her from inside like a thousand slippery tongues, making her smile wide and bite her lips. The pleasure was all around her and in her, too. She felt as if she were floating.

  Ooooooooo. .

  At first she thought she might be masturbating and dreaming of the others because the touches and tickles were perfectly placed and perfectly timed. She was puzzled but the mystery vanished in the darkness, washed away by wet delight.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She smiled again and stuck out her tongue.

  She wanted to see and blinked, but she saw only darkness. Still, her tongue snaked out to taste something she knew was there, without seeing it. Her tongue went way, way out, farther, and impossibly farther, it stretched and she felt the nerves in it come alive in the damp air. She tasted the air like a reptile and found warm musk. Her tongue pierced something warm then coiled and uncoiled, coiled and uncoiled inside something sweet.

  Then she heard a groan of pleasure that wasn’t hers.

  She heard it very clearly, and she knew for certain that there were others with her—others who felt the pleasure all around, too.

  The pleasure shifted from one part of her anatomy to another and back again and, sometimes, when it really got going, it was everywhere at once, like a warm water, bathing her all over. Her nipples sent pulses of pleasure gushing through her chest, her abdomen and down her legs.

  Often she was conscious of movement deep in her throat and between her legs at the same time. And, from time to time, she would swallow, with relish, something thick in a warm gush that kept coming and coming. There were peels of delight and deep animal grunts of pure, wicked pleasure that went on and on and on.

  More . . . more . . . more . . .

  From time to time, she was aware that hours had gone by in great blocks. The pleasure all around her continued as the hours grew into more hours and those hours into days.

  More!

  But as time went by, the warm, buttery tickling between her legs and in her mouth and up her spine turned slowly to dullness, then finally to grinding annoyance. But the others were persistent and squirmed deeper inside like ardent snakes. Up and up they pushed, demanding more. Now she wanted desperately to see her partners. She wanted to tell them to stop now. Enough was enough. She should get up and get cleaned up and get dressed. It was time to go, lovers.

  The grinding continued, the rubbing inside and outside would not stop. She thought for a desperate moment that the others couldn’t stop, even if they wanted to. They would continue to press and pinch and lick and suck from the inside. But there were no more grunts of pleasure or wicked laughter. There was only straining and pushing without feeling. There were no more sweet exchanges, no more pleasure all around, only empty struggling.

  Now she wanted to wake up. This was getting not so nice. She wanted it to stop. She wanted to wake up.

  Stop, goddamnit! Don’t do that!

  There was pain suddenly and the floating feeling turned to falling.

  Please stop . . .

  She felt a growing panic that welled up and with it a clarity of mind suddenly flushed of the drug-like pleasure and its wicked sensations.

  She remembered.

  They had put her here. The scientists had put her here. She had agreed to it because they promised her pleasure—great pleasure. But this was not what they promised. This was not what they . . .

  Please stop it!

  There had been a shallow pit in the bowels of the monolith. They took her there and showed her. They were friendly, yet not really friendly; and she had been afraid of them. The bottom of the shallow pit had been covered with strange plants with red centers. They had harvested some of the flowers, they had said, and put them in tanks filled with water just for her. They had said it wouldn’t hurt, and that others were there in another chamber lying nested together with the flowers attached to them—to their backs and lower bellies and heads. She thought it was funny at first and giggled nervously. They looked like they were asleep. The scientists told her to lie down with them and to let the tentacles wrap around her wherever they would. She wasn’t so sure so they gave her a shot that made her want to do it really bad. It felt so good to let the plants wrap tight around her legs and neck. Something pierced her head.

  Now she remembered. The others hadn’t been asleep; they only looked asleep. They were not right somehow, as if they had no brains. That’s why they didn’t say anything. They didn’t say anything because they couldn’t talk—they could only laugh like idiots and grunt without minds.

  And they wouldn’t stop because they didn’t know how.

  Help! Get out of me!

  Now the incessant probing and rubbing began to hurt. It felt like they were eating her with their touching and sucking. Where her nipples had gushed pleasure, they now burned as if rubbed raw. She hurt and burned deep between her legs.

  God! Please stop!

  She forced one arm to move and felt flesh, real flesh, just next to her. Her hand moved up a sweaty flank and found rows of smooth tendrils. Frantic, she groped behind her and felt more smooth flesh that seemed to writhe. Her hand reached up to her own head and felt it wrapped in tendrils, then down to her legs where she found more, wrapped tight like smooth ropes in neat rows.

  She was bound tight.

  She struggled and pushed with her hips, and her free hand slipped against slick flesh. She tried to pull her head loose, but it didn't move at all. Her panic flared.

  They were all inside her, stretching inside her, filling her up to exploding. They grunted and groaned and squirmed, and she felt the hateful touch and burned.

  Uhhhhnnnn . . .

  They wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. She felt the pain of their violation as it reached an unbearable peak, and her body stiffened against it. Deep, deep in her mind she felt herself shrink from the trespass.

  Finally, she felt relief.

  Her mind shrank to a tiny point of dull light, and the pain shriveled with it.

  In time, her mind vanished completely.

  She laughed and grunted like the others. The sounds had no meaning.

  Other sounds came to her th
at rang familiar to her tiny, hidden mind. She knew they were something but didn’t know what. They were important—they had to be. She let the sounds tap on her. They were nothing and something—important, yet meaningless. She squirmed against the bonds and grunted, while a sound slowly formed in her head.

  Wor . . . words . . .

  * * *

  “This isn’t working,” Kropp said. “Look at this mess. They’re dead, or nearly so. Whose idea was this, anyway?”

  “Mine, sir,” Lin Fong said. “I wanted to know if the plants could support them in a state of unified and sustained ecstasy. The hypothesis was that a sufficient number of Brunigea connections, mated to a sufficient number of specimens, would succeed where plasticizing recombination has failed.”

  “But look at the brain patterns, for Christ’s sake,” Kropp said. “The subjects are practically vegetables themselves.”

  Lin Fong sighed. “That’s true, but look at the endorphin levels—the phenylethylamine especially, it’s very high. Higher than can be achieved via surrogate drugs. It’s true it spikes then diminishes, but look at the first part—it’s amazingly high. I see that as very hopeful.” His finger traced a jagged line on a graph.

  “But it’s flat at this juncture,” Kropp said. “Your design has failed to support your hypothesis.”

  “It’s true it’s not high now,” Lin Fong continued. “But the results overall are far better than plasticizing because of the synoptic links in the hypothalamus facilitated by the Brunigea stamen. There . . . there doesn’t seem to be a limit to the number of connections that can be made without killing the subjects.” Lin Fong felt himself rambling to cover his failure. Kropp would see right through it. Lin Fong , plunged forward, hoping for the best. “In this configuration, we get multiple limbic to limbic links that compound the euphoria and the . . . ”

  “You’ve turned them to useless putty,” Kropp said, curtly. “Is the damage permanent?”