Read Dominant Species for Free Online Page B

the tank was reinforced at intervals by thick metal bands that belted its girth. The outer surface of the tank, arguably a sandy beige at some point, was now discolored and pitted. Corrosion streaked down from every valve. Of the numerous messages once stenciled across the trailer, only a few were still legible. One, the designation MC-631, appeared just above a black and white diamond-shaped placard with a dissolving human hand depicted in its center.
    Three dome turrets sat evenly along the tank's spine, each bristling with an array of faucets and handles. A group of braided-steel hose lines ran along the top of the trailer. Jenner could make out the word DECON stenciled along one set, and COOLANT emblazoned just beneath another.
    Jenner kneeled to peer at the undercarriage. The storage tank sat on a pair of grease-covered rails that would allow mechanics to slide an empty tank off in exchange for a full one. Hex, they had repeated endlessly, was best handled slowly and carefully.
    Hex; hydrogen hexafluoride. The Mother of All Acids. Jenner's gut had curled into a ball when he heard that one.
    Frowning, Jenner wiped his hands across the front of his shirt as he moved to the cab. He climbed onto the running board and tapped the silver release. With a pneumatic whine the heavy door gull-winged open to reveal a dark, cluttered interior.
    The cabin exuded a disconcerting blend of smells that embodied both decay and disinfectant. The sickly-sweet odor of antifreeze seeped up from the badly stained floor mats while the upholstery reeked of old cigar smoke.
    "S'matter boy? Lose the keys already?"
    Jenner practically jumped from his seat at the unexpected voice. The figure at the door looked to be in his early sixties, though his physique still carried the lean hardness of someone familiar with work. Swatches of grey at his temples were well on their way to overrunning the last vestiges of brown tenaciously holding ground on his skull. His skin had the texture of tanned leather left too long in the sun, although how anybody could catch a few rays down here struck Jenner as something of a mystery.
    Too surprised to reply, Jenner watched mutely as the old man fished a soiled red rag from his pocket for what seemed to be the sole purpose of exchanging the grime on his hands for older grime that had been saved on an earlier date. Neither the rag nor the hands came away any cleaner, but the hand rose up and reached into the open doorway.
    "Briggs. Hank Briggs." Stained teeth remained clenched on the wreck of an old cigar.
    "Hey," Jenner took the offered hand, thankful at the moment just to have some human company. "Uh, I mean, Private Jenner, sir." He fumbled to follow the handshake with a sloppy salute, the two gestures colliding haphazardly.
    Briggs snorted. "Don't ‘sir' me boy, I'm a sergeant, I work for a living." Then, a little more casually, "Briggs'll do just fine."
    Like most things in Jenner's new career, the rebuff seemed to reflect some tidbit of military culture beyond his understanding. But the fact that Briggs didn't make a federal case out of the whole rank thing was a good sign. The sergeant didn't seem at all like the ORA hardliners, most of whom Jenner felt took themselves and their little army routine far too seriously. Looking at Brigg's rumpled figure, Jenner wondered if all the fuck-ups got flushed to the garbara heap at the bottom of the mine.
    Without waiting for comment or invitation, Briggs climbed into the cab and launched into what seemed a well-worn lecture. Briggs' job was to handle all the complicated equipment while Jenner drove. The apparent simplicity of that assertion failed to deter the sergeant's obviously hell-bent desire to point out every switch, dial and display in the cluttered cockpit.
    Jenner's mind glazed over six minutes into the diatribe. His gaze meandered up a cluster of instruments on the cab's ceiling and fixed on a small hinged cover made of red plastic. He half-heartedly reached up