Dominant Species Volume Two -- Edge Effects (Dominant Species Series) (33 page)

“What is
it?” he asked.

The
communicator was easy enough to operate. She turned it on and scrolled down the
list until she found Security. Her finger was in motion to connect when she
stopped short.

There was
no doubt Smith had his eyes and ears everywhere, and if they came for them
there, on the plant, they’d know she knew.

She
stared out past the rivulets running down the front window and into the green
beyond. The rain made the jungle even greener.

She had
to think about this. She turned to John.

“We
should talk,” she said.

20

The clouds rolled in and cast a
cooling shadow over her. It was almost time to go. It was a good thing; she
couldn’t bear sitting still any longer.

She
trudged out into the plain, heading straight for the shelters on the other
side.

Walking
on the spongy plant stuff started out easy enough, but grew in difficulty with
each step. Months earlier, the huge defoliators, drifting hundreds of meters
above the surface, had chopped everything under them into pieces. Grass,
bushes, vines, even trees were whipped and flailed into chips no bigger than
her finger. She’s seen pictures of them and read about them in school, but
she’d never seen an actual defoliated forest before. The sound the machines
made was said to be like that of a tornado only louder and the cables vibrated
with such intensity that the earth itself shook.

The
ground was already sprouting new growth, and she wondered what they’d do about
that. Did they let it get just so high and whack it back down? Did they poison
it at some point? She climbed up a gentle grade, and at the crest of it, looked
out to see the vast and flattened strip the bulldozer had made. It was nearly
level and looked at least a kilometer wide. It stretched as far to the south as
she could see. It was hard to believe machines existed that could flatten so
much terrain. She started across it at an angle, relieved to get onto footing
that wasn’t spongy and unsure, if only for a little while. Once again she saw
that the plant life was reclaiming the oldest of the scraped ground, sending
up shoots green and vital in great numbers through the rich, dark soil.

Before
she knew it, she was back on the spongy surface of the plain, having traversed
just a corner of the graded section.

From time
to time, she saw the rotted and dried remains of pieces of animals—tails, legs,
and an odd jawbone. There were many desiccated insect parts as well; shiny
wings and pieces of carapace, heads and legs as light and dry as wisps; just
more ingredients in the defoliator’s destructive blending process. The number
of non-insectoid parts mixed in surprised her. Having traversed many kilometers
of jungle she’d seen relatively few species that weren’t insects and wondered
at the stealth the forest’s creatures must have developed over the millennia
to remain so hidden. She picked up a cramped and shrunken leg of a small
thing, looked at it, and for the first time, really saw it.

There one
minute—pureed the next.

The storm
had missed her, but the massive clouds kept her in the shade for the rest of
the afternoon. She trudged and stumbled on, thankful for the clear and vineless
air in front of her face.

By the
time the hot sun peeked from behind the clouds, she could see the installation.
Still distant, the buildings shimmered in the plain’s heat. She watched the speck
of a shuttle descend from above and land, casting one brief and tiny glint of
reddish light from its flat side.

She was
ahead of schedule. It wouldn’t bother her to camp some distance from the
buildings until darkness. As long as her shelter was in view, she was whole,
complete, filled with its promise of cleanliness, hot water and a bed. The
thought of lying in a clean bed after a cleansing shower made her giddy.

She
stopped about two kilometers out just as the sun sank red into the jungle. The
terrain was rolling in this part of the clearing and she found a depression and
parked herself in it. By crawling up just a few yards, she could see the
installation quite well.

Dusk came
quickly, filling the air with green light. A few small bugs whizzed past, and
she tightened her torn collar as much as she could.

The
lights came on around the loading dock, creating a halo of white around it.
Soon after that she saw lights coming on in the shelters, making little squares
of warmth against their dark silhouettes.

The
clinic was about halfway between the dock’s bright lights and the last shelter
in the cluster to the north. When the larger bugs clattered past, she got up
and started walking, fairly certain the darkness was hiding her.

When she could
see her faint shadow cast by the dock’s lights, she headed north to get out of
it and swung around in a wide arc. As she got closer, her heart began to pound
in her ears. She wanted desperately to get inside. She was anticipating that
the clinic would be empty, but not necessarily so. She didn’t know what she’d
do if it weren't. She finally picked it out of the cluster and was relieved to
see that its windows were still dark. Standing just a few hundred yards out,
the dark sanctuary of the clinic pulled at her. Her heart was pounding so
strongly that her pulse modulated her breath as if someone was thumping her
back.

The night
drove people on Verde inside and kept them there until dawn. Few would venture
into the darkness with its flying hordes without good reason. That was a plus.
The moons wouldn’t be up for another two hours. Now was the time.

Keeping
her eyes on the bright little windows of the shelters, she moved toward the
installation. From time to time, a head moved by a window with private purpose.
She covered the distance in just minutes, but in her mind it was taking hours;
each step taking her just a centimeter closer.

Finally,
she was at the clinic steps and moving stiffly up them, one hand gripping tight
to the railing. She made a little noise like a squeak, deep in her throat with
each step. She tried the latch once or twice, knowing it would be locked. With
trembling fingers, she fumbled with the zipper on her upper pocket and pulled
out her key. She had to use both hands to manage the precision required, then
pressed it to the lock. When the latch released, she practically fell through
the door. The lights came on and bathed her in clean, artificial brilliance.

Still
squeaking and whining, she closed and locked the door, then turned on the lock
to prevent all but emergency entry. She walked around the clinic, sliding the
shutters closed. The stiff, strong walls seemed to embrace her and the clean,
antiseptic scent of the clinic bathed her olfactory senses, heightened by
several days in the fecund organic milieu of the jungle.

One foot
at a time, she unlaced her boots and kicked them off. Her feet were white,
filthy, prune-skinned and so wet they almost slipped on the floor. She peeled
herself out of the torn and rotted cottons as she walked. By the time she got
to the hallway in the attached residence, she was completely naked. She walked
like a robot into the bedroom and toward the bath. When the light came on, she
was standing naked in front of the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom
door.

“Oh, my
God . . .”

Her face,
neck and forearms were covered with scratches, scrapes and dirt. Her entire
body was peppered with leaves and debris that had worked its way down and up
into her clothing. Long rivulets of grime ran down her neck and over her chest.
Her knees and shins looked as if they’d been whipped and were smeared with dirt
and green stains. Her hair was a mass of tangles.

She
turned on the shower and got in, hoping there was enough water in the world to
wash her clean.

Turning
slowly in the spray, she watched the dirt and grime flow off, swirl around her
feet and disappear down the drain. She started with a shampooing, feeling
carefully through her hair and on her scalp for things stuck and tangled in it,
alive or not. Then she lathered her entire body and rinsed in a fine spray that
stung her and burned against the scrapes on her face and arms. She didn’t mind.
She repeated the lather-rinse cycle three times.

She
blotted herself off with the most luxurious towel in the world, then took a
good look at the cuts, scrapes and holes on her legs and arms. One or two
looked like they might need attention, but the rest were just minor
lacerations. She found a can of topical antiseptic in the medicine cabinet and
sprayed it on them.

She
brushed her teeth for ten minutes.

She
walked naked back into the clinic, prepared a syringe with a broad spectrum
antibiotic and injected it into her thigh. She followed it up with another one
in the form of a two-thousand milligram tablet poked from a bubble pack and
swallowed dry. Lastly, she searched through the drawers and cabinets until she
found a partial tube of wormer. Disregarding the dosage, she squeezed the
remaining paste into her mouth and swallowed with a scowl.

The
kitchen was next. She pulled one fish and one meat dinner from the freezer and
cooked them both in the microwave. The scent as they cooked almost drove her
mad. She wolfed them standing against the counter, then washed it all down with
a liter of synthetic milk. She left the plastic trays on the counter.

She
brushed her teeth for another ten minutes.

When she
got into bed and wrapped the covers around her, the moons that had guided her
home were drifting over her just as they had for the last four nights. This time,
though, their job was done; their ward was safe and secure. She smiled at them
and rubbed her feet rhythmically against the clean sheets. A large beetle
drummed once against the impenetrable screen next to her bed.

“You
can’t come in,” she told it.

She slept
the dreamless sleep of the dead.

* * *

She awoke
refreshed and alert—and wary. She’d been so glad to get inside she’d forgotten
until that moment she was still in danger from Smith and his minions. While
she was getting dressed, she thought about what to do next. There wasn’t a lot
of thought involved in the solution to her problem.

What she
needed was allies. She just didn’t know how to find them.

An ally
could operate secretly, without causing suspicion. The ally could ask questions
discreetly; could feel and probe here and there without danger—provided he or
she knew what not to step in.

She’d met
a good number of the project’s personnel in the process of doctoring them, but
she hadn’t formed any close relationships with any of them. There hadn’t been
any time for that.

She
scrolled the phone directory to see if any of the names might inspire
confidence. She got no warm and fuzzy vibrations from any of them. In her
hyper-vigilant state, all the moving list of names did was inspire more
paranoia. Any of them could be working for Smith for all she knew. They could
all be in on it.

She was
pacing over by the door when the buzzer sounded. Her first reaction was to find
a place to hide, but reason calmed her. Whoever was there couldn’t know she was
supposed to be dead or they wouldn’t be ringing. She crept up on the door and
flicked on the viewer. A man and woman were standing outside, facing one
another. The woman reached over and pressed the buzzer again.

“This is
crazy,” the man said, barely audibly. “I thought you said she was dead
already.”

“Maybe
not,” the woman said in a low voice. “There’s always a chance she’s still
alive.”

Bastards.

The urge
to hide filled her from the bladder upwards.

It was a
bigger conspiracy than she thought. Here were two collaborators on her very
door step. Sent, no doubt, just to make sure she was dead.

“We have
to go to security about this,” the woman said.

“We
discussed that,” the man said, not looking at her. “We don’t know who’s working
for Smith.”

Oh, thank
God!

Donna had
the door open and was pulling them through almost before they had time to
react.

“Donna
Applegate?” Rachel said.

“I think
so,” Donna said.

“You’re
alive!” Rachel said.

“You bet
I am. This . . . this entire project is bullshit.”

“I know,”
Rachel added in the same voice. “This is bullshit.”

“They
tried to kill me . . .”

“I
figured they’d try that. Wouldn’t play ball, right?”

“Exactly.”

“I told
you,” Rachel said to John. “Didn’t I tell you?” She turned to Donna. “We have
to talk."

* * *

They’d
gathered around the large lab bench in the clinic. Sitting up on the bench,
legs and arms crossed, Rachel told Donna about the problem with the inventories
and the life forms she had discovered—and in particular the singularly unique
one John had stumbled upon and was almost killed by. She outlined why the
organism was so important and her suspicion that Smith knew about its presence.