Read Dominant Species Volume Two -- Edge Effects (Dominant Species Series) Online
Authors: David Coy
Tags: #dystopian, #space, #series, #contagion, #infections, #fiction, #alien, #science fiction, #space opera, #outbreak
Dominant Species Volume Two -- Edge Effects (Dominant Species Series) (13 page)
A heavy and sweet scent filled the air.
He moved to the edge.
The pit was filled to within two meters of the top with what, at
first, looked like thousands upon thousands of sticks mixed up in thick dark
mud. Over the mud was a thin layer of water, perhaps rained in from above. He
sensed immediately that the sticks and whiter shapes were bones, but his mind
balked at the sheer number and variety of them.
“What the hell . . . ?”
He raised his camera and leaned down to get a little closer. When
he did, one foot came in contact with the rim and slipped out from under him as
if on ice.
Trying to keep from falling in, he twisted and the other foot came
down on the slippery rim, and he fell in, sliding down the inside of the bowl
without a sound.
When his feet hit the mass of stuff at the bottom, they broke through
a thin leathery skin on the surface of the mud then sank with a gush into an
orange gelatinous mass underneath it.
“Christ!”
He was on his back and his feet kicked at the mass of jelly and
bones as he tried to keep from sinking farther down. With each kick, he could
feel his boots slipping and twisting off the slick bones buried in the goop. He
twisted around and scratched and clawed at the side of the bowl. The surface of
it, he could see now, was covered with what looked like stiff, hard hair pointing
downwards. Slick and providing no purchase, it kept him moving down with each
struggling movement.
Kicking and twisting, one foot finally stomped down on something
solid and stopped. By that time, he was on his belly and almost to his hips in
the goo. He could feel the stiff hair holding him in place, snagging against
the surface of his net suit and his clothing and pushing him relentlessly down.
Each time he moved, he could feel himself pushed a millimeter farther down into
the muck.
A perfect trap.
The purpose of the pit was now clear. An unsuspecting animal
would come to the edge, drawn to the scent, and would slip into the bowl.
Unable to climb out, it would be digested in the juice at the bottom, a little
at a time.
He felt a slight burning sensation on his legs. It was starting.
Panic churned his guts.
He reached down and unsnapped the strap on his knife and pulled it
slowly and carefully out of its scabbard. He knew that if he dropped that
knife, he’d stand no chance of getting out. His hand clamped on the handle like
a vise.
He picked a spot just under an arm’s length in front of his face
and stabbed in. The surface was hard but the blade sank deep. He sawed back and
forth then stabbed again, digging and cutting at the spot. A few whacks later
he’d cut a suitable hand-hold. He dug the fingers of his left hand into the
slit then stabbed down hard with the knife with his right, driving it in almost
halfway.
He pulled.
The hair tried to keep him down, gripping tight to his clothing;
but by rocking back and forth to lessen the surface contact, he was able to
gain some distance.
He held tight with his left hand and chopped another hole.
By the time he was able to get his left hand up over the rim, he
was thoroughly exhausted. One last stab far out into the floor and he was able
to pull, first one, then the other leg up out of the trap.
He rolled away from it, and slumped face-down, gasping for air.
The fingers of his left hand were cramped in a permanent hook shape.
The slight burning sensation on his legs was no worse than when it
started, suggesting that whatever potency there was in the sludge in the trap
had long since paled after the organism died.
He cleaned off his camera, took a step closer—but not too
close—and took a few more pictures.
“Sonofabitch . . . that was close.”
On the way back through the tunnel he realized that the circular
openings along the cove were how the prey entered, drawn no doubt, by the
promise of an easy meal.
Clever bastard.
Standing on the shuttle’s ramp, he pulled off his clothes and used
some of the on-board water to rinse the goo from his lower body. The stuff left
red patches on his skin that stung when he touched them.
He put on a dirty jumpsuit and his old spare boots from the
locker. When he kicked the gooped-up clothing off the ramp and into the
foliage, the cotton material split to pieces as if rotten.
“Damn . . .”
He wondered how potent the sludge in the trap would be if the
organism was alive.
He fired the shuttle up and rose slowly through the canopy,
letting the shuttle push the branches and vines away as it climbed. When he got
completely out, he set his bearing for the valley to the west and accelerated,
climbing as he went.
He’d gone no more than a few kilometers when he saw it. It was
another tentacled organism, this one bright green, and alive. It was barely
visible through the foliage and had his eyes not been used to the shape, he
would have missed it.
He circled until he found the central hub then dropped down to get
some pictures.
It was alive all right. In sharp contrast to the blackened skeleton
he’d just visited, this one’s dome was covered with a short nap of bright and
vivid green material, something like moss. There was a round, translucent panel
directly in the center of the dome. It looked like an enormous green breast.
The things were probably quite common. He got his pictures and
marked the organism’s location on the map.
God, I love it here.
He didn’t see the flurry of dark and frenzied motion near the arm
below.
He flew on, over the green hills that rose and fell like endless
waves.
9
She
sprang up from her terminal with the text of the confirmation still etched in
her head. Everyone said Rachel was lucky. Now she believed it.
What a dream come true.
Richthaus-Alvarez Mining had taken her contract. She would be
Biologist Grade III
on Verde’s Revenge.
With an addendum:
Biologist in Charge
;
in charge of the biological inventory—her, Rachel Sanders.
She wanted to jump up and down and scream just for the sheer joy
of it, so she did just that.
Her roommate looked up and eyed Rachel as if she’d gone mad. “What
are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to that Verde project!”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“Stop.”
“Yes!”
“No—stop
jumping,
Rachel.”
She stopped and sat down, then buried her face in her hands. A
second later she peeked out through them.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I thought that project paid peanuts.”
“It does! It doesn’t matter! I’d go for free! I can’t believe it.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow! Shit, I’ve got to pack.”
She bounced up again and turned in a circle.
“Clothes. Hot clothes. Clothes for hot weather, I mean. No, all my
clothes. Let’s see. They supply the equipment. That’s common practice. Leave
mine here. Take my scopes, though. What else? Clothes. Got that . . .”
“Rachel, will you please stop?” Jodi laughed.
“I’m fine. Really, I am.”
“Relax. Go make yourself some tea and relax.”
Rachel groaned. “I can’t! Jodi, do you know what this means?”
“Well, I know it’s important to you. I can tell . . .”
“See? You don’t know—you don’t. This is a chance of a lifetime.
If I never got another deal, I could die happy. I’ll have my own team and call
all the shots. I’d say that I’ve waited my whole life for something like this,
but I can’t, ‘cuz it’s never happened before. There’s never been anything like
this to wait for." See?”
“That big a deal, huh?”
“Bigger. The reports say the entire planet is . . . is . . .
teeming with life. It’s one enormous rainforest, thicker and richer than what
the Congo or the Amazon used to be. It’s one big jungle.”
“Sounds inhospitable to me.”
“Oh, shit. There’s not an ounce of hospitality on it. That’s the
beauty of it. It’s pure primal . . . something . . . Eden . . . no wait—it’s
before Eden. Prehistoric. No, not even that. It’s Mesozoic. It’s a cauldron for
new life.”
“Cauldron?”
“Yeah. A cauldron—a boiling cauldron.”
“Like a witch’s cauldron?”
Rachel made a face.
“They say there are millions of insect-like species alone. There
could be ten times that many plant species—and who knows what else?
There’s no telling.
No telling . . .” Her voice trailed off as
the possibilities sank in.
“It sounds dangerous to me.”
“Well, it can be. It sure can be,” Rachel said knowingly.
“I suppose you’ve got your work cut out for you, then.”
“If you want to call it
work
,
that’s okay by me.”
She stood up and rubbed her eyes, then shook her head, still in a
state of disbelief.
“I don’t know a biologist in the Commonwealth who wouldn’t kill
for this opportunity. It’s a chance to see and classify a jillion species and
sub-species. I’ll discover who-knows-what, and there’s no telling. All those
discoveries will be mine—I mean
ours
—the
team’s
. It’s a lifetime of work. I
can just see it now. I am one lucky person.”
Rachel took a deep breath, then sighed, and all the tension that
had built up over the last few minutes went out with it. “I need some tea,” she
said.
* * *
The next day, she got to the port early and had breakfast. It was
surprisingly good. It amazed her that anything edible could come out of the
filthy little concession. Thousands of people waited there for the morning
shuttles that would carry them up to the transports, which would carry them to
the off-world projects. The gate for Verde’s Revenge had very few people
waiting. The shuttle would be late, according to the status board. She planted
herself on a beat-up wooden bench and steeled herself for a two hour wait.
Good thing I’m always early.
Bored stiff by the end of the first hour, she counted the passengers
at the gate one at a time. Then she counted them again.
Twenty. Both times.
That didn’t seem like anything for such a high-rolling project
like Verde’s Revenge. It puzzled her.
She heard her name called on the addressing system, and the
pleasant, disembodied voice asked her to please come to the check-in.
“I’m Rachel Sanders. You called me?” she asked the steward.
The steward pointed. Rachel followed his finger to the bench
behind her. A young man stood up and stepped over in one long, stiff stride.
“Oh? Rachel Sanders?”
“Yes?”
“Hi. I’m your apprentice, Joseph Devonshire.”
Rachel blinked. She hadn’t asked for an apprentice.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, at a loss.
“Joseph Devonshire. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No. They didn’t,” Rachel said stiffly.
“Oh. They should have told you. My contract puts me under you as
the other member of the bio-team.”
“The other member?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
The conversation was getting even more confusing. Rachel felt her
voice growing an angry edge.
“No . . .”
“They should have, I guess. I’m sorry.”
He started to dig out his pad.
“I’ve got my contract right here. It’s signed and everything.”
“I
see.”
“It’s all legit and everything.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Rachel took him by the arm. The arm felt like a twig under the
heavy coat.
“Let’s go talk about this, shall we?”
She led him over to a bench and sat down, brushing off some papery
trash before she planted herself.
She smiled a big friendly smile at him.
“Joe, is it?”
“Joe Devonshire.”
“Joe. First of all, I didn’t ask for an apprentice. Second, bio-teams
are comprised of six members minimum, and I already have my six people in mind.
I haven’t ordered their contracts yet, but they’re people I’ve worked with
before, you know. This is a very important undertaking. I’m sure you
understand.”
“Then, I guess there’s been a mistake,” he said.
Rachel nodded knowingly.
“Yes. I’m afraid so,” she said.
“God! That makes me mad,” he blubbered.
“I’m very sorry . . .”
“I was told there was no full, actual bio-team. Just you and me.
The facilitator said so. He said . . .”
“What?”
“The facilitator said the bio-team was going to be small. He had
your contract right there at the time. He said he could sign me on with you as
the lead. There wouldn’t be a problem he said. I knew it was too good to be
true.”
Rachel swallowed. It had to be wrong. It had to be.
“Can you wait here for a second?”
“Sure. I don’t have anywhere to go anyways.”
She moved to a spot a few benches over and pulled out her pad. If
it were true, she was going to kill somebody. Goddamned bastards. You couldn’t
do a biological survey of a single section with only two goddamned people.
She turned the device on and fetched her contract. All the seals
at the top looked okay. She started to read through, word by word. She felt her
heart beat faster with each one.
Ten minutes later her eyes found the clause she hoped wouldn’t
exist. When she saw the words
preliminary
survey
, she had to read them again just to be sure that’s what it said.
“Sonofabitch . . .” she murmured.
She wanted to laugh. The clause described a biological inventory
all right, but not a real one. It was more like a test survey, a preliminary
survey, a bullshit survey—and it had no team members except herself and an
optional apprentice. The option belonged to Richthaus-Alvarez Mining, not her.
She scrolled down and found the addendum that must have been added. There it
was. It clearly identified one Joseph Devonshire as her apprentice. She checked
the paragraph that defined the contract’s term.
Five hundred hours. That’s it? Three months? How could she have
been so stupid? She wanted to throw the pad down and stomp the damned thing
flatter. Had she been so excited that she hadn’t been paying attention? Had she
missed the most important parts? Had she just assumed they were there? Was she
brain-dead?
The bright image of the contract seemed to mock her from the
screen, to cast its ghostly light on her horrible misunderstanding, all the
clearer to see it with. She turned the pad off and groaned. When she looked
over at Devonshire, she thought she saw a faint smirk on his bony face.
She got up and walked over with her most confident stride, head
held high. There was no use crying over spilled milk, at least not in front of
this weasel. She could cry later when she got into her quarters.
“Well, I guess you’re my apprentice.”
“I am!”
“Yep. You am.”
She held out her hand. He shook it eagerly. “Joe Devonshire!” he
said.
“I know. Glad to meet you . . . Rachel Sanders . . .”
“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. Gee, this is exciting!”
“Yep . . .”
“I’m sure I’ll learn a lot.”
“Yep . . .”
Later, she read the contract again, just to be sure there were no
more surprises. Other than the glaring oversight on her part, everything looked
okay. She thought briefly about contacting the facilitator and trying to
re-negotiate the deal. Experience suggested that was largely impossible,
though. Once you made your deal, you lived with it.
She should have asked, she should have checked, she should have
read
the damned thing.
She lay back on her bunk and closed her eyes trying to see the
not-so-dark side of it all. She’d have five hundred hours. You could cover a
lot of ground in that period of time. She didn’t know much about Joe
Devonshire, but if he could work hard, it might not be a total loss. What
disappointed her most was losing what she’d thought would be a lifetime of work
doing what she loved. That’s what she thought she’d signed up for; the best contract,
the
last
contract. Had her
enthusiasm simply blinded her?
That’s me. Miss Enthusiasm.
Well, she’d make the best of it. Maybe there would be a contract
renewal down the road. Someone would have to lead the full-scale survey that
would surely follow. Why not her?
Later in the day, she invited Mr. Skinny down to the canteen for
a sandwich. Since he’d be in her face for at least the next five hundred
working hours, it might be a good idea to get to know him.
It didn’t take her long to discover that he knew practically squat
about biology, and even less about sampling techniques; the key to a good
inventory.
“Where did you get your doctorate?”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten it yet.”
She blinked and thought.
“I see. How much course work do you have left?”
“Ummm . . . three years.”
She almost coughed up her coffee. This was ridiculous. She could
have done better with a certified clerk or secretary; someone to do just the
record keeping. This twig would make a piss-poor field biologist. She wondered
if she could twist his job duties enough to make him a clerk.
“So you’re at least five years from a full
Biologist Grade I
? “Well, if you count this apprenticeship, not quite,” he said.
“It counts for some.”
“Some . . .”
“Some,” he repeated.
“Not much though.”
“No. Not much.”
“Do you have any field experience at all?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What?”
“Let’s see . . . I was the lead on an investigation of a suspected
biohazard in my second year at Stanford.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It was nothing really.”
“What was the nature of the biohazard?”