Dominant Species Volume Three -- Acquired Traits (4 page)

“That’s
the part you don’t understand. He’s not in control.”

“The
receipts for the pay downs come from his company.”

“I know,
Joan. But it’s the Bondsmen who control everything. They’ve got everybody’s
contracts now. There’s not a goddamned thing that gets done without the
Bondsmen’s Council making the decision to do it.”

“I don’t
know what it matters anyway,” she said, close to tears. “Why are we bothering
to do anything for them? What’s the use? There’s no place to go after this.
This is it. This is all we’ll ever get. There’s no place to go. Every other
planet is dead. We’re trapped on this ball, and our contracts don’t mean
shit.”
 
He could forget about retiring on
Cunningham. He could forget about retiring at all.

“I don’t
know what the hell we’re supposed to do,” she went on. “What are we supposed to
do now?”

She
buried her face in her hands and growled into them. “I’m so mad I could kill
something. We need to call some kind of meeting—call up all the contractors or
post a bulletin.”

“Hell
with that!” he snapped back. “The Council would squash us like bugs if we went
against them. You even start talking about calling a meeting, and they’ll find
some reason to send you back to Earth—or something worse.”

“Oh,
bullshit. They can’t stop us from talking.”

“Yes,
they can. This isn’t the Commonwealth anymore, Joan. It’s The High Council of
The Sacred Bond of the Fervent Alliance. They’ve got just enough security and
weapons to back up any goddamn thing they want to do. Don’t you go calling any
goddamn meetings—you’ll get us both killed.”

“From
what—a few lazy, do-nothing guards. Shit . . .”
 

“They’ve
got guns.”

“We can
get guns.”

“How?
Where?”

“I could
find them on the manifest.”

“I doubt
they’d show up.”

“They do.
I’ve got one now.”

“What?”
he asked, frowning, not believing what he was hearing.

“I’ve got
a gun,” she said. “It came in a container addressed for one of Smith’s
assistants, and I took it.”
 

“You
stole it?”

“That’s
right. And I’m keeping it.”

“What
kind of gun?” he wanted to know.

“A little
pistol.”

“A little
pistol? A little pistol won’t do much good.”

“Maybe
not,” she said. “I’ll tell you what, Bill, when you think of something, let me
know. I’m out of ideas.”

Habershaw
stared at the wall past her head, his mind swirling with frustration.

“I’ll
talk to some of the guys,” he said finally. “Maybe we can get together with
just a few—just to hash it out some.”

“Great,”
she said.

“Go hash
it out some.”

That
pushed him over the edge.

“Why are
you mad at me? What have I done? Shit!” he yelled, pushing up from the table.
“You’re just making it worse!”

“Oh, sit
down!”

“You sit
down!”

“I am
sitting down, asshole.”

Habershaw
clamped his eyes closed hard and shook his head. This was ridiculous. “You’re
impossible.”

“I want
answers,” she said coolly. “I want to know what we’re going to do.”

“Joan, I
don’t have the answers.”

“But you
don’t even want to find them,” she said. “You don’t give a shit.”

She got
up from the table and started to clear it. He just stared at her, waiting for
her reaction.

This was
typical of him, she thought. Bill Habershaw, the center of the
universe—responsible for all things good and bad. And since he was responsible,
the universe and all things in it must blame him when things don’t go right.
All she wanted from him was some enthusiasm, some open anger about the situation—to
beat on the table with her and get damned mad. She wanted him to be on her
side.

“Look,”
she said kindly, “it’s not your fault we’re in this mess. Just forget it, okay?
I’m frustrated is all. I want to know what to do. I shouldn’t blame you for not
having the answers. Let’s go to bed. Maybe tomorrow we can discuss it again;
and between the two of us, we can think of something.”

“Yeah,
sure,” he said spitefully.

“Yeah,
sure,” she mocked.

* * *

That night
they lay in bed, eyes closed, but wide awake. They lay and listened to the bugs
banging into the sides of the shelter and buzzing against the screens. An
especially big one hit like a rock, then they heard it buzzing in a stunned
circle in the soft dirt, its wings sounding like a broken machine.

“That was
a big one,” Joan said, using the opportunity to break the ice. She tried to put
just a note of amusement into her voice but didn’t know if it worked.

“Yeah,”
Bill kinda laughed back. “Sounded like a big black and orange one.”

“Yeah,
but what
kind
of big black and orange one?” she asked with a crooked grin.

They
chuckled a little.

They
lapsed back into silence for a moment, and Joan heard him take a deep breath.
That was a good sign.

“I’m
sorry,” he said.

“Me,
too,” she said.

“This is
so fucked up . . . so fucked up.”

She felt
his foot reach over and nudge hers. She patted his in return with a sideways
tap or two.

“I’m
scared,” she said in a low tone. Her voice was almost a whisper.

“This is
very serious,” he said. “The Council is in full control now. Smith’s not even
on the Council. You’re right about our contracts. They don’t mean shit.”

“What are
we supposed to do, Bill? My guys are all screwed up about it, too. They don’t
even want to come to work. Even Mike. You know how even-tempered he is. He’s
all messed up over this.”

With a
rustle of sheets, she turned on her side to face him. Bill lay there with his
hands folded, like a corpse, on his chest.

“You know
what it’s like now?” she asked. “It’s like there’s two classes of people—the
haves and the have-nots. Know what I mean? The Bondsmen have all the food and
stuff, and the nice place to live, and we have shit—just this plastic shelter
and just enough food to keep us alive. We’re slaves.”

“So what’s
so different than it’s always been?” he grinned, with gallows humor. “We’ve
always been slaves.”

“Well,
the difference is that now it’s so goddamned clear cut, you know? Before it
wasn’t so noticeable somehow. Of course, contractors never had jack shit, but
everybody thought everybody else had jack shit, too, so it wasn’t so important,
right? Now we find out that there’s this group of people with everything, and
they’ve gotten that everything by our labor, not theirs—and our lords and
masters are right here in plain view. Just right over there.”
 
She pointed into the dark with an
outstretched arm.

He drew a
breath.

“That’s
an old problem. Very old.”

“Yeah,
but its one thing to read about it in history books and another to be living
it, right? I mean, think about it. It’s like the Incas with Machu Picchu—just
like that. The priests and shit get this incredible retreat where they can pray
and screw and stuff. The whole place is built by slaves, but the slaves can’t
even take a shit in it. All they can do is haul these rocks up a goddamned
mountain for these bastards—on foot. If they don’t haul rocks, they get their
wiry asses thrown off the mountain. This is just like that. Just the same.”

Deep
breath. “It’s not that bad,” he said.

“It’s
pretty bad.”

“Yeah,
it’s bad.”

“So I say
we storm the goddamned place and take it over,” she said. “What have we got to
lose?”

“What are
you talking about?” he said, his head turning slowly toward her.

“Revolution,
Bill, revolution. We get some weapons and storm the place en masse. It could be
over in minutes. It’s been done before. Vive les Contractors! Yeeha!”

“You’re
full of shit,” he grinned.

“I know.
But it’s fun to think about it.”

She
turned on her back and mirroring Habershaw, folded her hands on her chest. They
lay quietly for a long time, still awake, listening to the planet’s nightly
cacophony. Images of fighting, killing and starvation played out in their heads
to the rhythms of the jungle clicks, whistles and clattering wings.

“The
little scene you described probably took place a thousand times recently,” he
said.

“Yeah, I
guess it did,” she said solemnly.

“No
winners. All dead.”

“Yeah . .
.”
 

* * *

The next
morning seemed hotter than usual. The sun smothered the landscape with its
thick red arms. As she walked to the truck, Joan shunned its embrace with a
scowl.

She
wondered what she’d tell the guys today and decided that she had no idea. It
all depended on the looks she got when she opened up the office. She was their
leader and part of her job was to instill confidence. Some days she couldn’t do
it. Today was one of those. Her dark thoughts and the heat conspired against
her and broke her pleasant facade, cracked it open, and left the angst beneath
it plainly visible. Maybe she could get it back in place before they detected
how very wrong things were.

Mike and
Peter were screwing around outside, just like always. She could see them poking
and jostling at each other, showing their true ages. Mike’s limp made him look
especially vulnerable in the match, but he held his own. Some of the newer kids
were there, too, watching the mock fray from container tops like bored imps.

She saw
her chance and took it. Maybe she could defuse any thoughts of contracts and
useless, profitless effort by throwing them off guard. Perhaps she wouldn’t
have to deal with it for a while, not this morning, anyway.

“Hey!”
she yelled. “What did I tell you about that kind of shit on the dock! Go out in
the field and screw around if you feel like screwing around!”

“Sorry,”
they both said almost in unison.

“That’s
good. Be sorry,” she said opening up the office.

She
called the whole crew in and jumped right into the day’s jobs without ceremony.
If she acted pissed and rushed enough, she figured, they wouldn’t be able to
ask her any questions about anything. She wouldn’t have to stumble over answers
she didn’t have. When she was finished, she shooed them out like puppies. “Get
to work,” she said. “Go on. Get to work.”

It had
been months now since they first heard of the Collapse on Earth. It had taken
awhile to get their minds back on level ground after the depths of fear, grief
and horror they’d occupied over the news of it. Peter had been the hardest hit;
he’d been extra close to his family.

They said
there were survivors, but not many. Peter was sure his family members had
perished. He couldn’t be truly sure like one could be sure of a thing one could
see, but he had made up his mind, and it was his reality. It caused him a
gnawing grief. She felt he was trying to face both his intense personal losses
and the unimaginable, massive losses; working it out, perhaps just a little at
a time.

Mike had
no family that Joan knew of, except a brother he rarely mentioned. His father
had died some time ago. Joan considered herself the closest thing to family
that Mike had. She wasn’t supposed to have a favorite, but Mike was hers. He
was a good worker, regular, and just a good kid. She would adopt him if she
could, but that wasn’t necessary really.
 
They were close enough, and she could keep a motherly eye on him without
actually holding the official title.