Dinosaur World Omnibus

by Adam Carter

  But it was more than just Aubin, more than just the people who had died. This world was sickening, their society was a disease. It chewed on criminals and spat them out monsters. There wasn’t anything on this world that wasn’t a monster and Ashley Honeywood knew whatever else happened she could not allow Seward to return to society. She didn’t matter any more: she never had and no longer even wanted to. Her fingers tensed along with her resolve. If she could stop Seward getting off this world it would be a good thing: the only good thing any of them had ever accomplished.

  Seward gazed at her in uncertainty and she could see in his cold calculating eyes he was more worried about losing his pilot than his lover.

  “Don’t be stupid, woman,” he told her. “Put the gun down.”

  “Or what?” she asked, the question coming out half laugh, half wail of despair. “You’ll shoot me?”

  “Ashley, just put the …”

  She pulled the trigger and the gun exploded with violence.

  Seward started forward, then stopped, confusion to his face. Smoke lingered upon the gun, the acrid stench of burning metal wafted in the air, but Honeywood still stood before him, the gun held tightly to the side of her head.

  “I borrowed the gun from Garza,” Honeywood explained in a small voice. “He filled it with blanks to scare away the animals. Best way to avoid a wounded animal is not to wound it to begin with.”

  “Or to kill it,” Garza said and shot Seward through the back of the knee.

  Seward collapsed in agony, wailing at the top of his lungs. His eyes found Honeywood and he shot a stream of curses upon her. She looked upon him with cold indifference, her shock fighting a losing battle against her survival instinct as she looked upon this man and wondered how she could ever have allowed him to touch her. Trapped on this small world they all took whatever momentary pleasures they could find, but she could do so much better than this psychopath. She was so much better than him it hurt.

  Honeywood dropped her gun and raced to the side of the shuttle, tearing open the hatch and launching herself inside. Garza came behind her, sealing the hatch. The shuttle was cramped inside, but to them it was blissful. Honeywood dropped into the pilot’s seat and flicked the relevant switches while Garza fell into the seat beside her and asked what he could do to help. She pointed out a particular button for him to press and he did so.

  “Most important button on the craft,” she told him.

  “Passenger eject?” he asked nervously.

  “Air con.”

  Honeywood at last had time to recover and as the blissfully cool air blasted at her she tentatively pressed two fingers to the side of her temple. “I think I burned myself.”

  “Yeah,” Garza said, “you just shot yourself in the head. Blank or no blank, you’re still gonna burn.”

  Honeywood had never understood much about guns but was fairly hopeful she would not have to fire another ever again.

  They both looked out the window then as Seward continued to scream. He had crawled towards them, leaving a bloody trail behind him. “Are we just gonna leave him there then?” Garza asked. “The way he’s bleeding out it might take him a while to die. Unless the blood draws some predators around.”

  “The problem,” Honeywood told him straight, “is the two of us aren’t killers, Abe. I heard what you said to Cassie. Tax evasion? I mean, really?”

  “I know, right? Seriously, you’re just going to let him bleed out until he dies?”

  Honeywood thought a moment, pouted, then shrugged. She flipped a switch and the engine came on. “Yup.”

  “Wow,” Garza said, strapping himself in. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Ashley.”

  “You’re not my ex-lover, Abe.”

  “Well it’s a long journey.”

  She cast him a curious glance and found his laughter infectious. “Call me Ash. Now, you still want to be like me?”

  “If it means getting off this place, Ash, more than ever.”

  Amidst the roar of the ascending craft a desperate man’s wails were drowned out entirely, and the two people within were able to forever put aside any thought of psychopaths, murderers, dinosaurs or swamps. They had no idea where they were going, but wherever it was, Ashley Honeywood had had by far enough of any of those things to last her a lifetime.

  THE DINOSAUR THAT WASN’T

  CHAPTER ONE

  The creature raised itself to its full height and bellowed, its flabby mass rolling as though a particularly heavy wind had just struck against it. The thing was five metres in length, with a huge bulbous body supported by four thick legs which did little to keep its fat belly off the ground. A short useless tail sprouted from its back, while what passed for its upper torso flooded into something which could vaguely be termed a throat before its long snout of a head appeared from its end. Its skull allowed for a large mouth filled with an array of lethal teeth, beady eyes staring out from above.

  Aubrey Whitsmith wrinkled her nose as she regarded the animal, deciding once she got it to the arena she would have to think of a much more impressive way of describing the thing. She watched as it brought its forelegs from the ground, slamming them back down with a great deal of noise as it shook its head in a circular motion, probably believing such was intimidating. Perhaps it even worked, Whitsmith reasoned, but then she was far from close enough to be worried about whatever it was doing.

  Whitsmith was a short woman with shoulder-length red hair she often tied into a knot just to keep it out the way. Her clothes were always utilitarian and presently she was garbed in hard-wearing trousers the same shade of brown as the local trees. At her side there were strapped two pistols, although through all her time doing this sort of work she had never had to fire a shot. She did not like to describe her appearance, although had been told more than once that she had very plain features. That was a good thing around the institution, and that she even seldom injected any emotion into her face stood her in even better stead. Her life could be a dangerous one, and hardly any threat came from the creatures that roamed the outside world.

  There were four men presently surrounding the bulbous animal, clutching nets and poles and a variety of further equipment Whitsmith had never really understood. One of the men had managed to snag the creature about the fat throat with a metal hoop attached to his pole, and if the other three could follow suit they would be able to prevent the creature from moving very far. If they could hold it steady enough to get the tranquilisers in they could ship it back to the institution and away from anything that might want to eat them.

  The animal was called a moschops and the entire species had died out some two hundred and seventy million years ago. It had been from moschops and other therapsids that mammals had evolved, so Whitsmith figured she should have held the creature in at least a modicum of respect. In reality all she saw was a blubbery seal-like beast that would certainly hold its own against an opponent or two. Its skull was around four inches thick and she had seen them in the wild smash heads with rival males. It was something male animals did a lot, whether they were stags or giraffes, so accepting that something as old as a moschops would do such a thing as well was not difficult to accept.

  There was something else males did, no matter what their species, and that was find females of their own species attractive. Whitsmith had developed a rather odd system for getting these creatures into position for the ambushes her people would set. For the commonest animals she sought to trap, Whitsmith had identified the specific scents females of their species emitted while in heat. It was a useful tool which never failed to work, although she mused it had been applied slightly differently this time around. She had been hurrying down the corridor with a batch of the scent when her boss had turned a corner without seeing her. Needless to say the bottle had overturned and Whitsmith had half its contents spilled down her chest. Valentine had been profusely apologetic and had immediately begun dabbing at her chest with a handkerchief, but the last thing Whitsmith wanted was her
boss pawing her in the corridor. It had taken some effort to convince the man that she could sort it herself, but his face had been a perfect picture of shame. Valentine was one of the only people back there who actually apologised over anything: he was sweet like that. Of course, there had been no time to shower or change, so Whitsmith had gone out covered in female moschops scent. This particular hunt could have proved quite interesting had her people not been able to get a handle on the creature, but just to be certain Whitsmith herself had decided to stand as far from the animal as she possibly could this time around.

  A steady bleep emitted from her belt and Whitsmith unhooked the radio. She had been so caught up in watching the animal straining against its captors that the radio may well have been sounding for minutes without her realising.

  “Go,” she said as she answered it.

  “For a while there I thought you’d been inconvenient enough to get yourself eaten.”

  “Moschops is herbivorous, boss.”

  She could almost feel Valentine’s eyes boring down the radio at her. On first glance Dexter Valentine was not a man who commanded much respect, but he knew what he was doing and no one questioned him. Whitsmith had only survived with him as long as she had because she was too good at her job for him to let go. Her own feelings for Valentine were a little more complicated. He was a man of facts and figures, with his entire life ordered by spreadsheet and clipboard. He had no time for silly emotions and Whitsmith had never seen him with a woman. At first she had laughed at him behind his back, but the more she got to know him the more she realised she liked him being around. That he was generally abrupt with her did not put her off, since he was like that with everybody. It was as though he felt that having to talk to people put too many variables in his way.

  “How many animals are you bringing me?” he asked tersely.

  “Just the moschops. We had trouble tracking it or we would’ve been back sooner.”

  “Well don’t dawdle. It’ll be getting dark soon and you need to be home before then.”

  Valentine cut off the link and Whitsmith replaced the radio upon her belt. Valentine was a strange man who used a peculiar choice of words. This place was not home, not in any of the decent senses of the word. But it was where they lived now, and it was where they were going to die. Even if somehow they all managed another forty years in this place, none of them were ever leaving it. Whitsmith looked to the sky and shielded her eyes from the glare of what could not have been the sun this far out. The sky was as bright a blue as could be found on Earth, but instead of the gentle, delicate cloud structure and the promise of the stars beyond there was a massive swirling gaseous form. The churning orange and red mass had been a part of their lives for several years and Whitsmith knew she should have been used to it by now. The planet Jupiter acted as some form of jolly warden, keeping a constant watch over them all. Even during the night it was still possible to see the world king loitering in the sky, and Whitsmith hated it.

  But Valentine had been right about night setting in. Around here things like that happened quickly, as though this world upon which they were trapped did not care at all for polite convention. She could see her people had at last got the moschops under control and sedated. It would take a few minutes for the tranquilisers to take effect, but once they had the thing unconscious they could get it loaded on the cart to take back to the institution.

  It afforded Whitsmith a few more minutes to take in her surroundings. Stretching all about her was a vast spread of wild fields, while ferns, conifers and monkey puzzle trees rose wherever they could take root. Insects the size of her head buzzed around the plants, building nests or whatever it was insects did. Whitsmith had never been an authority on insects, for instead she had learned all there was to know about the larger animal life. Valentine needed animals and Whitsmith had made herself indispensable to him in such a regard.

  Whitsmith could see something in the far distance and strained for a better view. Vague shapes moved upon the horizon: tiny figures striding boldly across the lands confident there were no mightier predators the entire world over. Whitsmith did not know whether she could agree with such a thought, for human beings had a tendency to ignore the way nature set things up. Not that there was anything natural about this place, of course. Between the extinct animals, the artificial sunlight and the great eye of Jupiter keeping them all in their place, Aubrey Whitsmith could only wonder how any of them were even still sane.

  She could see her people finally had the moschops down and were struggling to load it onto a cart. The cart was little more than a thick flat slab upon which they would chain the unconscious animal. There was a two-seater cab at the front so the thing could be driven back, although the going was always slow over the bad terrain. Out here in the fields things would run smoothly, but within ten minutes they would hit the swamp and from there it was another hour until they reached the institution.

  This was not what Whitsmith would have considered a good life, but it was the one she had so there was little sense in complaining about it. They were all stuck here on this strange world and the more useful a person was the better her life was. Sometimes Whitsmith came out here to gaze across the plains and wonder whether there was anyone else across this entire world. Legally there should not have been, for the entire world was quarantined. There were many rumours as to why. Some believed the world was beset by plague, others that religious fanatics had taken the resurgence of extinct species to be an act of God. There were more theories about the fabled dinosaur world than there were natural satellites of Jupiter, and that was certainly saying something, but Whitsmith did not care for the truth. The facts were simple: they were not allowed to be here, but they were here. It meant no one was ever likely coming after them, and also meant they could never leave.

  But did she want to leave? Whitsmith could have named a hundred people who wanted nothing more than to put this world behind them, but she could not think of anywhere she would want to go. Here she had a purpose, a decent enough life even. That she had become Valentine’s secretary was a grating notion, yet she was so much more besides. Having learned everything she could about the habitats and manners of the animals here, Whitsmith had crafted a better life for herself here than she ever had back home.

  One of her men was calling her by this point and she indicated that they should start moving. Casting one final glance behind her, Aubrey Whitsmith heaved a heavy sigh and set out after them. For all its faults, this world was her home; and it could have been a lot worse.

  Reluctantly leaving the plains behind, Whitsmith accompanied her unit back through the swamps. It was never a good idea to wander alone, for there were always predators lurking and preparing to remove stragglers from any group. By staying close to the noise-making trundling vehicle, however, it provided the hunters with far more security than other travellers would have been afforded. That was not to say their vehicle was supposed to make all the clunking, chugging noises that it did. They simply lacked any professional mechanics or replacement equipment. And the natural humidity of the swamp did nothing to help what ancient equipment they did have.

  It was the humidity that struck her as soon as she re-entered the swamp. She did not know what it was about swamps, had never thought to look it up prior to coming out here. She reasoned it might have something to do with rising swamp gases, or the all-enclosing cover of the trees. It might of course have been for some other reason entirely, but Whitsmith did not much care. The fact was the swamp was a hot, muggy place to live and knowing the reason why would not make her feel any better.

  Her trousers and boots may have been almost military issue, but the top she wore was extremely thin and covered as much of her arms as it possibly could. She had known for people to have been bitten by mosquitoes in the swamp; and there were not necessarily cures for every insect out there. Within moments of course the humidity had plastered her clothes to her body and she could feel sweat stinging her eyes. But she was used to such h
ardships and just looked forward to the nice cold shower she could have once she got back home.

  Home. It was an odd concept, but one she had accepted.

  While she trudged through increasingly boggy terrain, the light dwindling through both the coming of night and the leaf coverage of the swamp, Whitsmith looked to the moschops lying on the slab. Its chest rose and fell rhythmically but its life was essentially over now. Once they got it back to the institution they would put it to work. It would last one, perhaps two rounds before it died. It was a terrible way to go, and Whitsmith often reflected upon how cruel they were to the beasts that called this world their home. That the things should never have existed to begin with did not justify what Valentine had them do with them, but it was not something Whitsmith liked to dwell on. In a harsh environment like this it was survival of the fittest. She could do what she was told or be put out into the world alone, and that was only if she was very lucky.

  The moschops was, after all, just an animal.

  No one spoke on the way back to the institution, but then that was hardly surprising. There was so much danger in the swamp even without the local wildlife that a wrong step could sink someone into the mire so quickly those walking beside would not even see their fellow vanish. Between the mosquitoes, the swamp and the creatures it was a wonder there were any people left alive.

  Finally the institution came into sight. From the outside appearance it did not look like much, but then even from the inside there was hardly anything to find aesthetically pleasing. It was a large stone and brick edifice already overgrown with moss and vines. Whitsmith did not know how long the place had been in the swamp, but this world did not like intruders and she would not have been surprised to learn it had only been here as long as she and most of the other prisoners. Time was something especially difficult to keep track of out here but she believed she had been here for about five years now. Five years which felt far longer than the twenty-five she had spent as a free woman.