by Peter David
Although, truth be told, this did not entirely surprise Atik. He had always considered himself as a Dog of destiny, meant for great things, upon whom God (Dog, spelled backwards) had a tendency to smile from time to time. Because of this innate feeling of being intended for some great destiny, Atik tended to be on the lookout for any opportunity to seize a moment and make it uniquely his.
As a consequence, when the explosion went off, Atik was watching for the slightest reaction from the creature, and he got what he was looking for. The creature glanced off in the direction of the explosion, momentarily startled, but that moment was all Atik was looking for. He came right at the creature, full strength, full speed. He didn’t bother with a roar designed to paralyze his intended victim with fear; he had the gut feeling that such a tactic wouldn’t work but instead would simply serve as a warning.
The creature spun, his attention snapping back to Atik, but he was a hair too slow and Atik plowed into him. The two of them went down, and Atik heard the gun go flying from the creature’s hand and clatter away. The girl thudded to the ground, and Atik knew, absolutely knew, that he had the creature cold. Tangled up as they were, with the creature helpless beneath his furious attack, the preordained end was only instants away.
And then Atik was airborne. He didn’t quite know how it had happened. He only knew that one moment the creature’s arms and legs were positioned beneath him, and then there was an abrupt thrust and Atik was flying through the air. Some sort of strange throw, something that Atik had not been remotely expecting.
He landed quickly and cleanly, though, and he was wielding one of his two long fangs, the other lying on the ground some distance away where Atik had tossed it as a defiant challenge to the creature. The creature, for his part, was simply standing there, his arms calmly at his sides, watching Atik with what appeared to be a confident smile.
They stood opposite each other, Atik waiting for the creature to make a move, either towards the fallen disruptor or the sword, each of which was about equidistant from him. But each was also just out of his reach, and Atik knew that, no matter which way the creature went, he would be able to get ahead of him and dispatch him quickly and cleanly.
The creature didn’t budge.
A handful of seconds crawled by with the speed of an eternity, but Atik decided that the creature was simply paralyzed with fear, despite his outward appearance of calm. Figuring that nothing was to be gained by prolonging the agony, Atik came at him, whipping his long fang around with the intention of gutting the creature. Indeed, he had it all figured out in his mind. He would go for the belly first, allowing the creature’s intestines to spill out all over the ground. The creature would see this, but naturally still be alive, and would react in a rather comical fashion. Either it would try to shove its organs back into place (always a chuckle to watch) or else it would try to run and slip and fall on its own vital juices. At which point the butchery could begin in earnest. The long fang was particularly useful for such endeavors, being far more elegant than the straightforward rending and tearing that the use of his claws entailed.
Atik thrust forward with the long fang—and just like that, the creature wasn’t there.
Atik stumbled, momentarily thrown off balance, something having banged against his arm while he was lunging. For an instant, Atik thought that the creature had matter-transported out, or perhaps had turned invisible or used some other similar stunt. But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the creature turning around to face him, and Atik moved to bring up his long fang once more … and discovered, to his shock, that his paw was empty.
A confused, gutteral noise came from his throat, and—ludicrously—he turned his paw over for an instant and looked at the back as if somehow the sword might have hidden itself there. Then he felt a gentle but distinct pricking sensation at his throat. He looked down. The sword point was touching up against it. He looked up and saw that the creature was holding it. He did not look the slightest bit strained or out of breath. As incredible, as impossible as it seemed, the creature had simply snatched the long fang right out of Atik’s grip.
“Looking for this?” the creature asked.
Atik said nothing. He barely even breathed. The point pushed more meaningfully against the base of his throat.
“I hear,” continued the creature, “that there’s nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal.”
Suddenly the sword flashed twice, across Atik’s chest, in a crisscross pattern, the two diagonal lines intersecting. Blood welled up, staining his fur dark as Atik fell, clutching at himself. For a moment he expected that he was to meet the fate that he had been planning for the creature; then he realized that the cuts had not gone deep enough. They were still incredibly painful, however, and Atik felt the world swimming in front of him as the blood flow thickened, covering his chest. He went down to his knees, cursing himself for his weakness, certain that the next thing he felt would be the long fang flashing through the back of his neck on its way to beheading him. This wasn’t right at all. This wasn’t the destiny that he had been certain would be his.
But there was no cut, no impact. Instead he was startled by the sound of metal as the long fang clattered to the ground in front of him. He managed, through his pain, to turn his head and spy the creature standing a short distance away. He was holding the disruptor in his hand once more and had the girl slung over his shoulder.
“Well? Is it true?” he asked. “About wounded animals being dangerous, I mean.”
Atik said nothing, merely glared.
“If it is … so much the better,” the creature said with annoying cheerfulness. “The fact is, I love a challenge, and danger is intriguing. So, I leave you to lick your wounds. Do give your masters my warmest regards.”
The only amount of satisfaction that Atik was able to take at that particular moment was that the creature didn’t turn his back on him. Instead he backed up, keeping his disruptor leveled, even though Atik was clearly injured and not in much shape to be any sort of threat whatsoever.
Behind him, the oddly shaped ship that Atik had seen before rippled into view, the side hatch opening up so that the creature was able to step into it without taking a backward glance. He nodded slightly to Atik, as if giving him a tongue-in-cheek salute, and then the door irised shut.
Atik staggered to his feet, growling in impotent fury, as the ship lifted off. Moments later, as another explosion seized the town, and then a third, the ship with the target of the Dogs of War hurtled away into the sky.
VII
THE REPORTS WERE COMING in from everywhere. Fr’Col didn’t know where to look or who to listen to first. His people were crowding into his office, pointing and shouting and crying out. They were covered with ash, or bleeding from vicious cuts and bruises, and all through the air was the unmistakable stench of panic. Everyone was shouting at the same time, each clamoring for his attention or demanding to know what he was going to do about the present situation. He couldn’t make himself heard; he couldn’t even think.
“QUIET!”
The voice bellowed so loudly above everyone else that it immediately seized their attention. It was a heart-stopper of a voice, a sound like an avalanche rolling straight through the room; indeed, two Montosians fainted dead away in shock from it. All eyes turned towards the source of the voice (the heads following immediately thereafter), which turned out to be the walking landmass from the Federation who had come in the company of the Thallonian, Si Cwan, and the Vulcan, Soleta. He glanced about for a moment, his fearsome gaze freezing any possible reply in the throats of those who were going to be presumptuous enough to try and make one.
“That’s better,” he rumbled, in a tone more closely approximating his normal one. With the momentary cessation of babbling, however, the explosions in the distance could now be heard. It seemed to Fr’Col that they were getting closer. “Now … what is happening?”
Naturally the cacophony recommenced, but this time it took only a look from K
ebron to silence them, and Fr’Col took the momentary silence as opportunity to speak up. “Some sort of creatures, from what I’ve managed to gather,” he said. It was not easy for him to focus; his mind tended to wander. He knew that was an ongoing problem; until now, it had never been a major handicap for him, for nothing of overwhelming importance, no major emergency, had ever presented itself to him. Those sorts of things simply didn’t happen on Montos, an intrinsically polite society that considered such bellicose matters to be … rude, somehow. “Heavily furred,” he continued, “piloting lethal ships, firing at random places in the city. No pattern. No … no nothing. Some of their ships have landed, and they’re running about, attacking, grabbing whatever they want—”
“The Dogs,” Kebron said immediately. “The Dogs of War.”
Si Cwan looked at Kebron in surprise, impressed that the Brikar had come up with the only reasonable answer so quickly. “Yes. I think you’re right.”
Soleta looked at him in confusion. “The who?”
“Genetic breeding experiment that went awry. They spent time in the outer rim of Federation space for a while, then relocated their operations into the border area of Thallonian space,” Si Cwan told her. “They were far enough out that they didn’t present an immediate problem. We would have attended to them eventually, but we had more pressing matters than dealing with a group of barbaric space pirates. Unfortunately, the Empire collapsed before we were able to get around to it.”
“Are they vicious?”
“Ferocious, Lieutenant,” said Kebron, the formal-sounding use of her rank indicating the gravity with which he was treating the situation. “They made the mistake of attacking a Brikar colony some years back. We repulsed them … don’t say it,” he added as an obvious afterthought to Si Cwan.
“Wouldn’t have occured to me to say it, considering this is not an appropriate time for sardonic banter. Don’t you agree?” asked Si Cwan. Kebron nodded, which for him meant that the entirety of his torso bobbed slightly as if he were bowing.
Fr’Col took a deep gulp in his throat, fingering the triangular stone that he used for a gavel. “Can you help us?” he asked. It was not an easy thing for him to inquire. The people of Montos were rather dedicated to keeping to themselves and disdaining outside help. Asking for the aid now of these Federation people was very, very difficult.
The Thallonian seemed to realize, even appreciate that. His face darkened. “We would if we could. If our starship were here, we could likely dispose of them without too much difficulty. The Dogs tend to tuck tail and run when the odds even seem to move against them. But we have limited resources.”
“If we had even some fighter ships, one-man vessels,” Kebron mused out loud.
And Fr’Col thumped his stone vigorously on the podium. “We do!” This caused another round of mutual talking until Kebron once again shouted them down.
“How did you get such ships?” asked Si Cwan.
“I told you. We traded valuable minerals and got useless junk in return. That was the junk.”
“Fighter ships were junk?” Clearly Kebron couldn’t believe it, even though his face wasn’t designed to display a multitude of expressions.
“They were until now. We never had any use for them.”
“Are they near?”
“Take them to warehouse B!” called out Fr’Col.
Immediately this straightforward command was taken up as a war chant, and cries of “Take them to warehouse B! Warehouse B!” echoed throughout the room. Si Cwan, Soleta, even Kebron (although to a lesser extent) were caught up in a wave of excitement and bodies as they were ushered out of the room towards the storage facility where the only hope for Montos sat gathering dust.
Fr’Col suddenly slammed his stone triangle down on his podium. “I object!” he shouted, and then realized he’d forgotten why he’d objected. Fortunately, no one was in the room to hear him.
* * *
Si Cwan was less than enthused.
The fighter ships, such as they were, were not what he would have remotely termed “state of the art,” although at least they weren’t broken down in any respect. There were half a dozen of them, covered with thick dust.
The crowd of Montosians who had been huddling in Fr’Col’s office were now grouped together in a quivering collection of trembling bodies. There were more explosions outside, and each time they would jump slightly and huddle even more closely together.
“They’re getting nearer,” Kebron said, listening to the explosions. He didn’t sound particularly perturbed about it. If it were a purely natural thunder-and-lightning storm closing in on them, he wouldn’t have sounded any more put out.
Si Cwan took one more glance at the ships. “I know these vessels. They’re of Boragi design, aren’t they.” He looked around and saw that Fr’Col had entered the warehouse just in time to hear the tail end of his question. Fr’Col nodded in affirmation.
Cwan was more than familiar with the residents of Boragi III. They were a race that specialized in staying neutral under all conditions and circumstances. However, they had a remarkable knack for stirring up trouble among other races, and then coming in to pick up the pieces when the dust of the conflict had settled. It was obvious to Cwan that the Boragi had been hoping the Montosians might put their new-found toys to some sort of warlike use, preferably among themselves, leaving the Boragi free to engage in more trade and dealings with whichever side of the battle wound up surviving. They had reckoned, however, without the Montosians resolutely placid attitude. No such battle had been forthcoming, and there was no telling how long the ships had been sitting there unattended.
There was no way to find out except to check it for himself. Si Cwan clambered up the side of one of the fighters and eased himself into the cockpit. “Kebron, this is going to be a tight fit for you,” he warned.
“I’ll take a deep breath,” said Kebron, looking around for a fighter that was to his liking.
“Soleta, have you any experience with flying vessels of this sort?”
“No,” she said coolly.
“Have you ever been in a solo firefight of any sort?”
“No.”
That was not what Si Cwan was hoping to hear. They were going in outnumbered as it was. His main hope was that the Dogs would tuck and run, as they tended to do simply to protect their numbers whenever a battle seemed more trouble than it was worth. “Perhaps it would be better if you remained here, then.”
“That would be the logical course of action,” Soleta agreed. Whereupon she selected a fighter and vaulted into the cockpit. It was all Si Cwan could do to suppress a smile. She was quite something else, Soleta was.
Then he turned his attention back to the weapons and control array. Time was not their friend, and the sooner they got out there, the better their admittedly slim chances would become. But that consideration had to be balanced against the preparations needed to fly the ship into battle without getting himself killed just from inexperience. There were two elements, and only two, on their side. The first was that the Boragi, as irritating and conniving as they could be, were quite skilled in the art of ship design and tended to produce solid—if not particularly inspired—weaponry. And the second was that they had tried to make it as simple as possible to operate so that the Montosians would be more tempted to use it.
He studied the weapons quickly, trying not to be distracted by the approaching series of explosions. They seemed to be fewer in number; obviously, as the bombing raid softened up the populace, more and more of the Dogs were descending to ground and taking on the people hand-to-hand. That sort of battle was generally more to their liking.
He heard a grunt and saw Kebron shoving himself into the cockpit of another vessel nearby. To say it was a tight fit was to understate the matter. But Kebron did not have a lot of choice. Several Montosians had climbed onto the vessel with him and were helping to push him down into place. “Thank you,” he rumbled. He didn’t bother to belt himself in; his own
width was easily going to be able to keep him secure. Si Cwan had the feeling that the only way they were going to get Kebron out of the vehicle was to disassemble it.
“Fr’Col,” Si Cwan said sternly, “I want you to understand something, and I want your oath in front of all these people: That when we return from this, after having saved your lives, you and your people will willingly join in the new alliance that we are endeavoring to form. That you will have seen the advantages of an agreement of mutual protection, for from that will grow mutual strength. Your oath, sir.”
Fr’Col nodded. “Anything you say. I have no objections.”
“Good.” He looked over at Soleta, who was studying the controls in front of her with quiet, resolute determination. “Lieutenant, are you sure about this?” he called. “Are you certain you can handle it?”
“No,” she said with her customary bluntness. “But I am a fast learner.”
“Good. All right … lower the cowling,” he said. The weapons array was a somewhat quaint series of switches rather than the touch-sensitive panels he was accustomed to, but he was certain he could adapt. He flipped the switch that he surmised would bring the cowling down and seal off the cockpit.
His vessel shuddered ever so slightly, and before he knew it, blaster fire discharged from the front of the ship and smashed into the far wall of the warehouse. Montosians went running as debris rained down, dust and smoke rising from the impact. When it cleared, there was a large hole in the wall.
“You might want to consider the blue switch to the left of that one,” Kebron suggested without a trace of irony.