Dominant Species Volume Three -- Acquired Traits (17 page)

“They
might. It’s a damned nuke.”

“Then I’m
screwed. I’m screwed anyway. What’s the difference?”

Habershaw
sighed through his nose. She was a loose cannon. But if anybody could pull it
off, Joan could.

The plan
was to steal the nuke, hide it where it would do the most damage, then threaten
to use it. As long as they had the nuke and the power to detonate it, they’d
have some say about what happened next. The bomb would give them back their
future by providing more than a little leverage against the Council. If she set
it off—she’d tell them—The Sacred Bond of the Fervent Alliance would have to
fend for themselves on this hostile planet without benefit of slaves or weapons
or human comforts. If they didn’t get their way, Joan would vaporize the last
remnants of human technology. The survivors would be forced to live like
savages. If it came to it, Joan was sure she could do it. At least it would
equalize things. When the bomb atomized the zillion tons of human goods, now
collected in one relatively small spot, the contractors would have nothing, the
mercenaries would have nothing, and the Sacred Bond would have nothing. People
would die; that would be unavoidable. But people died anyway. She had it all
thought out.

But the
goal wasn’t to set the bomb off and turn the last fragments of human
civilization to gas. The goal was to distribute the power. The mercenaries had
to go. They could go back to Earth—every last goddamned one of them. Most of
them would probably prefer that. The weapons would be destroyed, most of them
anyway. Once those goals were achieved, a new collective Council would be
formed with representatives from both sides on it. That Council, made jointly
of contractors and settlers, would govern the fledgling society on Verde’s
Revenge.

No work
without representation. Joan had read her history—and no more torture or
executions either.

“Be
careful, Joan,” Habershaw said.

“Hell
with ‘em,” she said.

By three
o’clock the next day, Joan Thomas was in possession of a one-half-kiloton,
residual-radiation-free, protonuclear exploding device weapon, complete with
instructions on how to deploy it, arm it and detonate it. Exploded close
enough, it could easily destroy the Bondsmen's entire living cloister.
Regardless of where it was detonated, the damage would incapacitate the
settlement or wound it mortally. Exploded in the unoccupied storage warehouse
compound, the resulting devastation would make living on Verde's Revenge very
unappealing proposition. It was the perfect bargaining chip.

The bomb
itself was about the size of a lunch box, egg-shaped with a smooth and shiny
anodized surface. There was a launcher like a big tube and a suspensor
attachment and a guidance system for it, but she wouldn’t be needing those
since she wouldn’t be launching it or sending it at anything. The remote
detonator was small enough to fit in her shirt pocket. It had three buttons on
it. The bomb came with an attachable handle for carrying. The instructions for
using it were written on the inside of the container’s lid in language a child
could follow. There were big red cautions and Danger! Icons all over
everything. She’d seen plenty of those over the years, but none quite so flashy
or insistent.

She slid
her hands down around the bomb and pried it out of its depression. She turned
it around. It was much heavier than she thought it would be. It wouldn’t
destroy the entire settlement, but was certainly capable of wreaking
substantial damage to it. It was the perfect bargaining chip.

“Wow,”
she said.

She sat
cross-legged in front of the open container with the nuke in her lap and
studied the instructions for a minute longer. Then she put it back, closed the
lid, pushed the case across the floor and crammed it between the bed and the
wall. She covered it with the dirty clothes from the hamper.

She
dialed Bill’s number.

“I’ve got
the cookie,” she said when he answered.

“They
don’t suspect? It went as planned?”

“Planning
is my middle name.”

“Where is
it?”

“In the
bedroom.”

“In the
bedroom?” he almost choked.

“Right.”

“No,” he
said. “Get it out of there. If they suspect it’s been stolen, that’s the first
place they’ll look.”

“Bullshit.
It’s the last place. Think about it, Bill.”

He did.
“Okay. How big is it? The bomb itself?”

“With a
little work, I could hide it up your ass,” she said. “That’s not funny.”

“Sure it
is.”

Christ,
he thought. She’s a wild hair. She’s perfect for this shit.

“So where
do we plant it?” he asked.

“Guess.”

“Joan,”
he said solemnly. “This is serious. Please don’t screw around.”

She
huffed into the phone. “Fine. We put it under the transmitter between warehouse
Three and the dock,” she said. “It’s an unlikely spot, kind of out in the open,
but there're plenty of vegetation in between the supports to hide it in. The
transmitter is right in the middle of everything. If it goes from there, it’ll
take out ninety-nine percent of everything they own, mostly the storage
warehouses.”

That
wouldn’t be all it took out. If the bomb went off anywhere near the settlement,
people—perhaps a great number of people—were going to die. As far as he knew,
the blast could destroy the warehouses, the contractor’s shelters and the
cloister, too.

“Joan?”
he asked.

“What?”

“Would
you set that damn thing off—if it came to it?”

He
expected some hesitation, a moment’s reflection based on the gravity of such a
decision.

“You bet,”
she said instantly. “Look it’s a big bomb but it’s not going to destroy
everything. Just what we want to blow up.”

“You’re
sure?” he said with relief.

“Yes. I’m
sure.”
 
Her voice was strained tight, and
the words came a little fast, propelled by a manic urgency. “We shouldn’t be
living like this, Bill. None of us should. It’s twisted.”

She was
right of course.

At that
precise moment, he realized Joan and none other was the one to hold the bomb’s
key. She was the one to negotiate with the Council. She would be tough; tougher
than anybody because deep, deep down she really didn’t give a shit. The
authenticity of that sentiment would show itself plainly. If they suspected
weakness or a failure of resolve, the entire thing would go to Hell. There
would be no deficiency of strength in Joan Thomas to suspect. When they sniffed
the air around her, for some trace of fear, they’d find nothing but the scent
of anger, frustration and the strong musk of an iron will. Some of their
number—those with the right noses for it—would detect the odd, sickly stench of
madness, as well. She would emit the perfect bouquet.

“You’d do
it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’d do
it,” she replied.

“Then if
we don’t screw up, we can’t lose.”

“We win
either way,” she said.

Habershaw
thought about it and swallowed. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

9

“Y
o Katz,” Donna said
with a grin, “Why don’t you just turn your back and let us walk out of here.
You could say we grabbed your rifle, got the drop on you and
Bukowski, and got away.”

“You
tried that one already,” Katz told her, tired of her lame attempts to
manipulate him. “Forget it.”
 

They were
on their daily walk, some distance from the jail and just at the jungle’s edge.
It was mid-morning, and the red sun pounded on them. Donna looked into the
thick, dark jungle with a sense of longing. The irony of that emotion made her
want to laugh. Could she do it again? Could she live in the jungle? It was
better than this. At least she’d be free and the chances of survival were at
least as good.

“Okay
then, how about we do it like this,” she said. “We fake like we clobber you
with something then tie you up and . . .”

“No,”
Katz said. “I’d get Vilaroosed. You get away, I get Vilaroosed.”
 
His brown eyes were steady, and Donna saw his
square hands tighten on his rifle. She’d gone a little too far today. Katz was
a full head taller than she was, athletic and strong. She knew if she ever made
a grab for his rifle, he’d easily overpower her or even John. She didn’t think
he would kill her; he wasn’t allowed to do that. But he could make life harder
on her in any number of ways or perhaps clobber her with something.

Katz’s
face was odd to her, not in an ugly way, but odd, as if the sunbaked wrinkles
in it weren’t quite in the right place. He turned away slightly toward the sun,
just to ignore her, and she saw why. When he squinted, his eyes turned way down
at the corners. His eyes weren’t totally lacking in compassion, but he was a
soldier through and through. Joan imagined that it was all the fighting and
killing that changed him, transformed him from what might have been a
reasonable man into the murderous bastard he was. Katz and Bukowski were men
you could trifle with somewhat because they were bored with the duty and had a
sense of humor still buried somewhere. But step over the line—and they might
kill you out of reflex, out of instinct, like family dogs killing pet rabbits.

“Hey, it
was worth a shot,” she sighed.

“Forget
it,” he replied and drifted away from her. There was caution in the maneuver.
It frustrated her.

“I’ll try
to think of something you can live with,” she said as a parting shot.

“Not
likely,” he said from a distance.

“You
never know . . .” she said with a lilt.

“Yeah ya
do,” he said in the other direction.

The
funny-bunny talk about escape had just about used up its usefulness and her
cute persistence about it was starting to grate on him, she could tell. Chatter
wasn’t doing it. She’d have to think of something else. She didn’t like the
options.

The plan
wasn’t to trifle with Katz, but to kill him if necessary. The ploy was simple
on the surface: relax them. Getting familiar, friendly with them, seemed the
best way to achieve it.

When they
got back to the shelter and Bukowski had locked them in, Donna pulled her
home-made sap out of a leg pocket and tossed it on the table with a clunk. It
was nothing more than a flattish, tear-shaped dollop of lead solder about the
size of her hand sewn tight into a sleeve of cotton. They’d melted the solder
in a pan on the range and, on the counter top, poured it into a form made with
dried mud. It had a short and strong, flexible handle made of a strip of
plastic molding taped firmly to the business end. Relatively small, flat and
concealable, one good whack on the head with it would knock anybody, even Katz,
completely senseless. John had one just like it. He smacked it into his open
hand.

“Goddamnit,”
she said disgusted, “he’s still too uptight— too cautious. What about
Bukowski?”

“He’s
dumber than Katz,” Rachel said, “but he’s not stupid. I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,”
John said.

“What?”
Donna asked.

“Seduce
the bastards. Make ‘em think you want to fuck. That’ll throw them off guard.”

Donna had
thought of it herself days ago, but wasn’t sure it would work. Besides, she
just didn’t like the idea. Katz and Bukowski would see right through it, of
course; but then again, the male libido being deaf, dumb, blind and unable to
reason—could lose the day.

“Eddie,”
Donna said to him, “excuse yourself for a while.”
 
Eddie made a face. “I’m not a kid.”

“Yes, you
are,” she replied. “Adios. Git.”

He got up
with another face and went to his room. There wasn’t much to discuss. Rachel
had Bukowski wrapped around her finger already without doing a thing. But Katz was
another story.

“How do
we know they’ll go for it?” Rachel wanted to know. “I mean, if they really,
really wanted me—us—they’d just rape us wouldn’t they?”