Read Online Dominant Species Volume One -- Natural Selection (Dominant Species Series) by David Coy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Coy
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, series, Space Opera, Alien, Dystopian, space, contagion, outbreak, infections
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was when she tried to think how she could fashion a weapon to
kill Tom Moon out of that garden hose.
Some of the other captives had dragged piles of the stuff back to
their holes as if just having it around them could somehow save them, or at
least remind them of who and what they were.
Clutter was clutter to Mary, even in this place. She had her bed
and her food basket and her can opener and her utensils, and her little
handmade tools. That was enough.
“What is this place?” the woman asked, looking around the small
chamber. Her voice sounded like an odd recording.
“This is my room.”
Until that moment, Mary had never referred to the hole as “her
room,” but that’s what it was. It was hers. No other humans tread here
uninvited. Nevermind that she’d never invited anyone in. The hole was a
possession as surely as the food basket.
Its dark, curved walls enclosed a space some twelve by twelve
feet. The floor was flatter than the walls, giving it an igloo feeling. The
single dim light organ in the center of the ceiling burned with its odd light
continually. She’d often wished there was some way to turn it on or off, but
that was impossible. The walls were the same dark, rubbery texture as the rest
of the ship. There was a single vent or port, about a foot wide, halfway up
one side that breathed warm, moist air into the chamber half the time and
sucked air out half the time. She had watched the smoke from her cigarettes
drift up and out that vent and be pushed away from it when it exhaled. The fact
that they always had air with enough oxygen in it baffled her, but a lot of
things about the place baffled her.
What little comfort she had, she got from the hole. It was her
womb. She had taken possession of it at the end of her first cycle. Dazed and
terrified beyond reason like this woman, she had crawled up into it when she
saw others, like rodents, doing the same. There was a single thin blanket and
some unopened cans of soup and lots of trash in the hole when she first moved
in. She had pushed all the junk into one spot on the floor, wrapped herself up
in the dirty blanket and, exhausted, slept a little. When she awoke, the empty
cans and wrappers were gone. Room service had cleaned them out of the hole.
Room service was a pair of goons that came through every couple of days and
removed anything that looked like trash. They used a long rake-like tool and
dragged out all the junk they could reach. They weren’t too choosy about what
was or wasn’t trash, but they seemed to know that stuff that was in a neat row
wasn’t trash and everything else was. Mary learned early to keep her
keepable stuff in neat rows.
So the
hole wasn’t completely uncomfortable, and it was, if not a home, her dark
sanctuary. They gave her this brown chamber and kept it clean and ventilated so
she could recover from the trauma they inflicted just so they could traumatize
her all over again.
“Your
room?” the woman asked again.
“Yes. My
room. You can stay here until you move into your own. I’ll try to help you
out—tell you what to do, such as there is.”
The woman
started to cry again. Mary led her to the bed and gently encouraged her to sit
down on it.
“What’s
your name?” Mary asked.
“Bailey.
Bailey Hall, that is. I just got married. I’m married.” Her voice still had
some of the flat monotone pitch about it. In spite of that, Mary didn’t think
she’d ever heard a voice so buttery and rich. There was a slight thickness, a
touch of hoarseness that gave it a sexual dimension, flattened or not. The fact
that she was repeating herself reminded Mary that she was still in shock and
probably would be for some time. Mary dug out the Ding Dongs and opened them.
“Have
one. They’re yumsters,” Mary said.
Bailey
ignored the offering.
Mary
wished she knew a little more about first aid and all that. All she knew to do
was be kind to the poor woman and wait until she came to grips with what was
happening as
kill Tom Moon out of that garden hose.
Some of the other captives had dragged piles of the stuff back to
their holes as if just having it around them could somehow save them, or at
least remind them of who and what they were.
Clutter was clutter to Mary, even in this place. She had her bed
and her food basket and her can opener and her utensils, and her little
handmade tools. That was enough.
“What is this place?” the woman asked, looking around the small
chamber. Her voice sounded like an odd recording.
“This is my room.”
Until that moment, Mary had never referred to the hole as “her
room,” but that’s what it was. It was hers. No other humans tread here
uninvited. Nevermind that she’d never invited anyone in. The hole was a
possession as surely as the food basket.
Its dark, curved walls enclosed a space some twelve by twelve
feet. The floor was flatter than the walls, giving it an igloo feeling. The
single dim light organ in the center of the ceiling burned with its odd light
continually. She’d often wished there was some way to turn it on or off, but
that was impossible. The walls were the same dark, rubbery texture as the rest
of the ship. There was a single vent or port, about a foot wide, halfway up
one side that breathed warm, moist air into the chamber half the time and
sucked air out half the time. She had watched the smoke from her cigarettes
drift up and out that vent and be pushed away from it when it exhaled. The fact
that they always had air with enough oxygen in it baffled her, but a lot of
things about the place baffled her.
What little comfort she had, she got from the hole. It was her
womb. She had taken possession of it at the end of her first cycle. Dazed and
terrified beyond reason like this woman, she had crawled up into it when she
saw others, like rodents, doing the same. There was a single thin blanket and
some unopened cans of soup and lots of trash in the hole when she first moved
in. She had pushed all the junk into one spot on the floor, wrapped herself up
in the dirty blanket and, exhausted, slept a little. When she awoke, the empty
cans and wrappers were gone. Room service had cleaned them out of the hole.
Room service was a pair of goons that came through every couple of days and
removed anything that looked like trash. They used a long rake-like tool and
dragged out all the junk they could reach. They weren’t too choosy about what
was or wasn’t trash, but they seemed to know that stuff that was in a neat row
wasn’t trash and everything else was. Mary learned early to keep her
keepable stuff in neat rows.
So the
hole wasn’t completely uncomfortable, and it was, if not a home, her dark
sanctuary. They gave her this brown chamber and kept it clean and ventilated so
she could recover from the trauma they inflicted just so they could traumatize
her all over again.
“Your
room?” the woman asked again.
“Yes. My
room. You can stay here until you move into your own. I’ll try to help you
out—tell you what to do, such as there is.”
The woman
started to cry again. Mary led her to the bed and gently encouraged her to sit
down on it.
“What’s
your name?” Mary asked.
“Bailey.
Bailey Hall, that is. I just got married. I’m married.” Her voice still had
some of the flat monotone pitch about it. In spite of that, Mary didn’t think
she’d ever heard a voice so buttery and rich. There was a slight thickness, a
touch of hoarseness that gave it a sexual dimension, flattened or not. The fact
that she was repeating herself reminded Mary that she was still in shock and
probably would be for some time. Mary dug out the Ding Dongs and opened them.
“Have
one. They’re yumsters,” Mary said.
Bailey
ignored the offering.
Mary
wished she knew a little more about first aid and all that. All she knew to do
was be kind to the poor woman and wait until she came to grips with what was
happening as
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