Dominant Species Volume Three -- Acquired Traits (26 page)

The
beetle was rare and quite small by Verdian standards, measuring only half the
length of his index finger. It circled him once or twice, drawn by the sweet
cloud of carbon dioxide that surrounded his head. Once, it landed on his
shoulder and turned in a tight knot, seeking flesh it knew was there somewhere.
But finding nothing worthwhile, it unfolded its stiff wing coverings and
clattered into the air with a light clicking sound.

It
circled again and landed once more, this time at the seam of net suit and
cotton fiber. Smelling sweat, it scrabbled into the space between the two
fabrics. It would have ducked and clawed its way under the cotton and against
his skin if Habershaw hadn’t zipped the space closed. As it was, he sealed the
bug between his net suit and inner clothing with a single, long pull on the net
suit’s zipper.

He turned
the truck on and crept backwards out of the space. He turned toward the road
and continued to creep silently until he was well onto it. He checked his
watch. Eleven hours till dawn. He’d calculated it out already. He’d have to
average forty kilometers per hour to make it back before daylight. That would
leave him about three hours to find Joan. Forty kilometers per hour would be
pushing it on this road. It wasn’t real smooth.

He drove
by moonlight until he was a few kilometers out then he hit the trucks lights.
The insects seemed to materialize out of thin air in front of the truck.
Spinning, whirling specters of red and green and black and brown, they flew at
the truck and banged off the windows or zipped past in streaks of uninterrupted
motion. The truck wasn’t going that fast, but sometimes the ones that hit left
spatters of juice smashed out by their fat weight and inertia alone.
Occasionally, he’d see an especially huge something race across the road, or
scramble ahead of the truck for a distance; its shiny surface reflecting
brilliant accents from the truck’s lights.

He
settled in for a long night’s drive. Wherever he could, he upped his speed to
forty-five or fifty, just to be on the safe side.

The bug
crawled along a folded tube of cotton until it emerged at his side, antennae
waving. From there it headed downward, scrabbling over the folds at his hip and
pushed under the tight fit of net and cotton in his lap. It made good time
going down the relatively smooth stretch along his leg. It headed south again
at the knee and when it reached the zipper at his ankle, it took advantage of
what moisture and mildew had started months ago—it crawled through a tear where
the zipper met cotton. It now hung sideways on the inside of his pants leg,
just a centimeter from skin, antennae twitching with an insect’s particular
form of delight.

It
reached out with those antennae and touched flesh. Then it twisted and snagged
sparse hair with its forelegs. Getting a good grip, it twisted farther and
thrashed for a grip with its remaining legs. Habershaw felt the crawling
sensation of stiff little legs.

“I’ll be
goddamned,” he said, reaching down and mashing at the spot with his fingertips.
He felt the hard little carapace crush under his hand and felt wetness on the
last punch or two. Then he pinched a fold of pants leg and net suit, pulled the
elastic band away from his leg and shook it all, leg included, hoping the now
dead little invader would fall out.

He and
Lavachek had done a good job of scraping the road from the settlement to the
monolith. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t supposed to be perfect. It was supposed
to be a passable dirt road smooth enough so that most of the vehicles that
would need to use it could. They’d left many ragged tree stumps in this wide,
passable road. They were inevitable and of little consequence really. All one
had to do was drive around them.

He didn’t
see this tree stump until it was too late.

He
stomped the brakes just as he hit. The stump was so thick and strong that the
truck literally bounced off it. The impact was more than sufficient to deploy
the restraints, and the bags exploded from their holes with a sound like bombs.

“Christ!”

Habershaw
was shaken but unhurt. He pushed the deflated bags out of the way and looked at
the instrument panel. Not a single light shone in it. Expecting the worst, he
reached for the on button and poked it once or twice. The worst was what he
got—the truck was dead.

“Now
ain’t this a fine mess?” he muttered to himself.

If I'm lucky
, he thought,
it's something
simple— something I can fix.

He got
out of the truck and moved to the side hatches. The night was almost roaring
with sound. It was so pervasive and loud that he wondered for a moment if
someone could hear it from orbit.

Being out
on the dark, lonely road with all that alien life around him was making him
jittery. Insects flew by him, crawled on him and banged into him. He looked at
the jungle’s edge just ten meters away. He could almost feel its teeming life
from where he was—as if the legs, tendrils, vines and claws that existed within
it were reaching out for him. He knew he shouldn’t be out alone—especially on
the outside of the truck.

“This
place is something else.”
 
He spoke out
loud to himself again, since no bugs seemed to listen.

He lifted
the motor’s access door and turned on the diagnostics. The system ran for a
moment then returned the error message he needed. Brushing bugs out of the way,
he looked at the diagram the system displayed. A length of cable blinked out at
him in bright red. Using the diagram as a map, he found the cable and saw that
it had been torn loose when the fire extinguisher flew off its mounting and
whacked it on its way forward. He straightened the cable and plugged it back
in, then replaced the fire extinguisher.

He ran
the diagnostic again to check the system. Another error came up. This time it
made a reference to some controlling circuitry and a module with a name he
didn’t recognize.

“Aw,
hell.”

He
punched the help button. The system told him to yank the damaged module and
replace it with the spare. He reached over for the spare. He started to pull it
out.

Something
hit his back like a club, knocking him into the panel door.

He felt a
compression, like a giant pinch across his back that burned like fire. He tried
to turn, but couldn’t. His hand fell on the truck’s heavy service wrench just
as he was jerked backwards through the air. He hit the ground a few meters away
and found himself moving backwards, straight into the jungle.

He
reached over his shoulder and felt something big and tough and cool stuck
solidly to his back. It hurt like hell. He extended his arm out and found a
thick tendril or stem leading from it.

He
grabbed the stem with his strong left hand and pulled in just a little slack.
Then he twisted and kicked with his legs and turned. He took another grab and
twisted some more until the tendril was wrapped under his arm. Sliding on his
hip and elbow, he could now see what it was. Just three meters away was the
enormous head of the biggest bug he’d ever seen. The tendril was pulling him
right into the center of jaws that opened sideways, waiting for him with a
sharp and hideous larvae’s grin. The moonlight shone on its huge, humped back,
covered with brown rolls of leathery material.

He brought
the spanner up over his head and whacked at the umbilical. It felt like hitting
a thick rubber hose.

Just as
he reached that crushing maw, he rammed the spanner across the mouth parts and
jammed it in tight. He felt the wrench go in solid and lock down as if it had
been made for the space. There was even a final click as he stuffed in it.

He felt
whatever was attached to him let go and a flood of warmth ran across his back.
Habershaw rolled away, and saw the umbilical snap into place up under the thing’s
mandibles. The grub shook its head so fast and violently that Habershaw could
feel the vibrations through the air as if they were coming from some bizarre
buzzer. It stopped and started, stopped and started, like some strange machine
and each time, Habershaw was afraid the spanner would come loose, knock against
the horny mandibles on either side and fly out at a killing speed. He put his
hands up to protect himself and backed away stumbling, watching the thing
trying to dislodge that perfect, stainless steel wrench.

“Have
fun, you bastard,” he said. “I hope . . . I hope you choke on it.”

He
staggered back to the truck, replaced the module with the spare and managed to
get the truck started. He knew he was bleeding pretty badly because he could
feel his clothes soaked through down his back all the way to his seat. He
didn’t think he would bleed to death because he didn’t think there were
arteries in his back. He pressed himself tight against the seat to try to halt
the bleeding. Soon he sensed that the warm spread of blood had stopped. He was
sore all over.

He
checked his watch. He was way behind, but he wasn’t going to turn back now. He
had to find Joan—he had to. She should have called. She always called.

He
arrived at the settlement just a little off schedule, having made up lost time
on some stretches of road that were smoother than he remembered.

The
shelter was his first stop. The place looked abandoned and the door was
swinging open.

“This is
bad,” he muttered to himself. “Very bad.”

He didn’t
see anyone lurking or watching the place. But there was no way of knowing what
to expect once he left the meager sanctuary of the truck’s interior.

He gave
another look around and unlocked the doors.

He walked
up the steps and went inside. The shelter had been ransacked. Every cabinet and
drawer had been opened; the contents strewn helter-skelter. Moonlight streamed
in and left ragged, angry shadows from everything it touched. He worked his way
down the hall, stepping over the stuff that littered it. The bedrooms had been
trashed as well. When he looked into the main bedroom—the one he and Joan
shared, his anger and frustration boiled over.

“What the
hell?” he moaned. “What is this?”

He kicked
his way back through the hallway and out the door. He got in the truck and sped
toward to the boys’ shelter. They might know something. They usually knew a
little about just about everything that happened.

Ignoring
the chime, he banged on the door. A moment later, a confused and frightened
voice came from behind it. “You’ve been here already!”

“Peter!
Open up! It’s Bill Habershaw!”

The door
opened a crack. Habershaw pushed his way inside and closed the door behind him.
Peter and Mike were standing there, half-dressed. They looked haggard and
forlorn, like refugees. They were thinner than he remembered. For a moment, no
one looked right at him.

“Mike,
where’s Joan?” he asked.

Peter Ho
looked at the floor. Mike just blinked and stared, speechless.

“What’s
happened?"

“They, uh
. . .” Mike began.

“What?”
he shouted, the tension in his body erupting.

“They
killed her, Mr. Habershaw,” Peter said. “The soldiers killed her.”

It was
Habershaw’s turn to blink. “What?” he asked in a much lower voice.

“They
killed her and took her away, and the people who were with her,” Mike said.

“When?”
Habershaw asked dimly, in shock.

“Yesterday
morning,” Peter said.

“How?”

Neither
one wanted to answer. “They just killed her,” Mike said, finally.

Joan was
dead, but his worst fears were still alive. He had to know. He could scarcely
form the words. “Did they . . . ?”

“No. They
. . . um . . . they shot her,” Peter said.

Habershaw
felt himself sink into the chair, but he hadn’t meant to do it. He bent over,
and his face went into his hands. He didn’t want to cry; he just wanted to sit
there. It was okay. He had known she was dead before he got there. He was
faintly aware of a trickle of warmth running under his clothes. As the blood
ran toward his side and then down it, he thought of how meaningless the blood
was and how he didn’t give a shit how much of it he lost anymore.

“I’m
sorry we're the ones to tell you, Mr. Habershaw,” Mike said, his own swollen
face showing signs of recent grieving he hadn't let the other dock workers see.

“What
about the bomb?” he asked.