The Galactic Circle Veterinary Service

by Stephen Benjamin

  The Galactic Circle Veterinary Service

  Copyright © 2014 by Stephen A. Benjamin

  All rights reserved. No part of this story (e-book) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Terry Wright

  Cover Art by Terry Wright

  ISBN: 978-1936991-82-2

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank all who have read the various drafts of this novel, including my colleagues in the Northern Colorado Writers’ FantaSci critique group, for their encouragement and invaluable suggestions. The book would not be what it is without their input.

  Most of all, I am grateful to my wife, Barbara, for her unfailing support and patience, particularly the latter, when writing consumed more of my life than it should have.

  By

  Stephen A. Benjamin

  CHAPTER 1

  I just did it again, shot off my mouth while surrounded by the tavern’s myriad of flapping ears. Too much ale was no excuse.

  The behemoth in front of me dominated my vision. I underestimated him because of his worn laborer’s clothing, and he demolished my self-composure when he said, “And you believe your experience supersedes that of the Torah?”

  “You’re twisting my words,” I said in loud debate, hoping the volume of my voice would support my big mouth. “The Old Testament is not meant to be taken literally. More than four thousand years of experience has changed the context of what was written.”

  “God gave Moses the Torah.” Goliath’s laugh boomed across the room. “I was not aware that the word of God had need for a context.”

  A chorus of patrons echoed his mocking laugh. Even so, I sensed many of them supported my views but would not voice that support—for good reason. They had seen the three rebbes watching our conversation. I had not.

  The rebbes rose from their table and headed straight for me. My heart jumped as they glared at me from beneath the brims of their traditional black flat-brimmed fedoras.

  A hush came over the crowd, and the commentator of a free-fall soccer match on the giant plasma screen thundered against the silence. The overhead bioluminescent lights felt like heat lamps. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck. People rose and scuttled for the exit as if afraid the black-coated enforcers of religious purity might target them next.

  I swallowed hard. “Good evening, rebbes.”

  The rebbe closest to me had a scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to the middle of his bearded cheek. The eye twitched as his fiery anger seared my empathic perception. My stomach wrenched as it always did when struck with strong emotions, and I had slammed my mental empathic barriers into place too late. As I quashed the incipient nausea—I did not need to lose my dinner in front of everyone to add to my chagrin—the inevitable headache stomped into my brain. Closing my eyes accomplished nothing against what seemed like an explosion of fireworks in front of my optic nerves. I opened them again and squinted at the rebbe. “Is there a problem?”

  “You should heed the words of a man who knows the path of true faith.” The scarred rebbe glanced at the giant who had stepped away from us, and then back at me. “I shall see more of you, I think.” He turned and stalked out of the tavern with the other two rebbes in tow.

  Oh, shit. I’d really screwed up this time. What started as a disagreement over a government entitlement program had ended in my denouncement of the dogma of the Rebbinical Council and the tyrannical theocracy that ruled Dovid’s World. My big mouth could send me straight to the Inquisition.

  Subdued conversation resumed with the exit of the rebbes.

  A touch on my shoulder accelerated my heartbeat again.

  My recent opponent stood over me, his voice now soft and serious, not mocking as it had been. “You okay? You don’t look good. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” He put a huge hand on my shoulder and steered me to a table in a corner.

  I was in no condition to argue further.

  He frowned as we sat. “You’re a fool. Your words could put you in prison. You need to use your brain before your mouth.”

  Yeah, I knew that, but it never seemed to help much. Already in a lousy mood and feeling awful, I did not need someone else pointing out my flaws. Although angry at myself for my stupidity, it was easier to direct my anger at the most convenient outlet, so I glowered at the man in front of me. Goliath’s bright brown eyes studied me, in turn.

  As the headache faded, I cautiously lowered and peeked over my shields, all I could do without incapacitating myself. I sensed an aura of curiosity, but not the hostility I expected considering his attack on my heretical statements.

  He turned and addressed the barmaid who came to our table. “An ale for me. A cider for my friend.” He raised an eyebrow, dared me to contradict him.

  I didn’t argue. Still queasy from the rebbe’s emotional assault, I knew that too much alcohol had taken its toll, though I did not appreciate the reminder.

  The man thrust his bear-like forepaw across the table and smiled. Full lips peeked out from within a sandy beard and moustache, topped by a broad, crooked nose. “I’m Furoletto Cohen. People call me Fur.”

  I stared at his hand and rolled the name around my brain; I did not recognize it. Fur fit his impressive facial shrubbery. I was envious. The law said that men of age must wear beards. I barely managed an anemic lawn of chestnut fuzz.

  “I’m Cy Berger.”

  His hand engulfed mine. “Well, Cy Berger, perhaps turning your inappropriate tirade into a clownish performance might save you worse trouble. Didn’t you see the rebbes sitting in the back? We can hope that a laugh at your expense will make them less likely to take serious action.” He tugged at his beard.

  “Why should you care?” After all, he had just humiliated me in front of the entire tavern—some of my fellow students included.

  “Why? A good question. Wait. Here are our drinks.” He took his and downed half the mug in one swallow.

  I sipped my cider and wondered what the guy’s angle was.

  Cohen wiped his mouth. “I wouldn’t see anyone subjected to the Inquisition. You should learn to keep your political opinions to yourself...at least in public.” He smiled, perhaps to blunt the edge of his criticism. “Tell me about yourself. I might as well know whom I tried to save.”

  Mortification compounded by annoyance made me curt. “I’m a student at the Academy College of Veterinary Medicine.”

  “Congratulations. Not an easy profession to get into. What about before that?”

  Though the compliment sounded sincere, I was still leery of the guy. Why this change in attitude toward me? What did he want? “I grew up on my family’s dairy farm, throwing bales of hay and shoveling kilotons of shit. What’s it to you?”

  He smiled despite my hostility. “What do you do for recreation? Besides drink.”

  “All right. What is this? Your version of the Inquisition? Why don’t you just kish mein tuches?” Even as the words poured out, I regretted them.

  His brows pulled together, his eyes narrowed, and he slammed his mug onto the table. My cider glass jumped and teetered before I caught it. My hands shook and slopped cider on the tabletop.

  He took a deep breath before he spoke
. “Look, Berger, I tried to help you tonight. Maybe that was a stupid thing to do, considering you don’t seem to give a shit. I thought perhaps you could learn from a bit of advice, but that looks to be a lost cause. Fine. I’m finished. Maybe I’ll see you again when the Rebbinical Council gets done with you—if there’s anything left to see.”

  God, I could probably piss off that ancient icon of forbearance Mahatma Gandhi, if I had the chance. Cohen’s words hit too close to home. My breath caught as I recalled horror stories about the Inquisition. As he started to rise, I grabbed his arm. “Wait. Don’t go.” At least his presence made me feel like less of an isolated target. “I know you tried to help me. It’s just...how you did it.”

  He sat down, though his frown did not clear until I began to talk.

  To be truthful, it never took much to get me started. Shutting me up was a bigger problem. I watched my fingers make wet circles of cider on the tabletop as I spoke about myself. “...so, aside from my studies, I read a lot, and I have a thing for watching ancient vids from Old Earth.”

  “Like what?”

  “I read and watch anything available on microchip from the ancient Greeks to the present. History, philosophy, fiction. Recent books I’ve read have been on political systems, particularly religious tyrannies.” I glanced around to see if the rebbes hovered behind me. Many of the tables had emptied. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t reject Judaism. I treasure our traditions. But I do have a problem with dictatorships and oppression.”

  “I would never have guessed.” Fur’s mouth curled up at the corners. “Veterinary medicine makes sense with your background, I suppose. I don’t think politics would suit you.”

  He looked around “It’s late. I have to go.”

  Despite our disagreement, I liked the big man, but I still was unsure about his motives. “Hey. I’ve given you my life story. What about yours?”

  “Perhaps another time.” He scowled at me. “Until then, you might keep your mouth hidden behind your textbooks.”

  We shook hands, or rather, I let my hand disappear within his and move up and down without my assistance. He threw a bill on the table and trudged off.

  As I stared at the iconic picture of a rebbe adorning the bill, a frisson ran up my back. I finished my cider and I left the tavern. As I stepped out the door, I came face-to-face with two members of the Palmach, the government’s elite police force. Their stealth-powered armor disappeared into the darkness, and it seemed as if their faces and hands floated disembodied before me. One flipped his visor down and then back up, as if to ensure himself of my identity before he spoke. “Mr. Berger, you are to come with us.”

  My first thought was to bolt, but for once my brain recognized the stupidity and futility of such an action. I felt like I had a mouth full of chalk dust, and it took a couple of tries to get any words out. “Wha -what for?”

  “You will be informed.” He motioned with a laser rifle for me to move.

  The other guardsman took hold of my arm in a painful grasp, and they marched me off as our smaller moon joined the larger moon above the rooftops. I wondered if I’d ever see such a sight again.

  CHAPTER 2

  When the guards marched me up to the infamous headquarters of the Inquisition, I almost lost control of my sphincters. Fortunately, I did not add utter embarrassment to my heart-pounding fear.

  They locked me in a tiny cell and disappeared without another word. I alternately sweated and shivered as I listened to a variety of moans and sobs, punctuated by an occasional scream, from voices I assumed were other prisoners. I recalled the vids I had watched that featured all sorts of torture and wished I had stuck to the Walt Disney shows.

  Hours later, a taciturn Neanderthalic guard packing a very large blaster unlocked my cell. I assumed it was morning, but they had confiscated my comm unit, and the room had neither a window nor a chronometer. He marched me up a flight of stairs and down a corridor then shoved me into a small room furnished with a plasteel desk and three chairs. My glance slid behind and above the empty desk. A veritable museum of torture instruments decorated the institution-gray wall. I had visualized many of them during the night: thumb screws, branding irons, spiked whips and scourges, electric prods, and more. As my mind wrapped itself around their meaning, I heard the door close and turned.

  The rebbe who addressed me the previous evening in the tavern stood by the door. His face had haunted me in my cold cell all night. The reality was worse, and my gut clenched.

  He smiled through his chest-length black beard, a smile that belied his underlying hostility. I kept my shields firmly in place; I did not need a repeat of last night’s nausea and headache. His beard contrasted with the shiny bald head he unveiled when he doffed his fedora to me.

  I did not return his smile.

  He replaced his hat. “I am Reb Levi Schvartz, a member of the Rebbinical Council. You may address me as Reb Levi.” His voice grated like rough ball bearings against rusted steel.

  I assumed he knew my name and did not respond.

  Built like a fireplug, the man looked to be in his early forties. His midnight black attire—suit, shirt, tie, socks, shoes, and hat—seemed to suck the light from the room. His matching black eyes sat above a large, hooked nose that, as prominent as it was, could not rival the size of my mammoth schnoz. His pale scar gleamed against his ruddy face and disappeared into his beard.

  He moved behind the desk and sat in the only padded seat, then motioned me to a straight-backed metal chair across from him. I surreptitiously looked for electrical connections before I sat.

  A knock preceded the entry of a third person. To my amazement, the Dean of the College of Veterinary Medicine appeared. I had met him twice, both times when I had challenged the intelligence or the personal habits of one of his faculty members. He was a gray man—like the walls. He would not meet my eyes as he moved to sit in the hard chair next to me.

  Reb Levi rubbed his fingers over his scar. “Mr. Berger, your seditious diatribes have caused considerable consternation among the members of Rebbinical Council.”

  The Dean coughed as if the rebbe’s words had choked him.

  My gut writhed like an eel in a net.

  “Last night was just the latest of your transgressions.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. The Dean’s sallow face turned even paler, and I wondered if mine looked the same.

  “The Dean tells me that you are at the top of your class, academically. Commendable. He also tells me that you are a kochleffl”—he used the Yiddish word for troublemaker— “even at the Academy. You realize that you could be subjected to the Inquisition, do you not?” He raised his right eyebrow and his scarred left cheek twitched in response.

  My heart skipped a beat. I glanced over his shoulder at the wall of torture implements and prayed it was only a museum display, although the past night’s sounds suggested my prayer would not be answered.

  He waited for a response, although I was not sure what I could say. Recant my “seditious” pronouncements? I would not back down on my beliefs—well, at least not yet. Be tortured? That fear played more games with my sphincters. I’m no hero; I’m a chicken when it comes to pain. Disappear like others before me? Scuttlebutt said two radical students who dropped out of school last year had not been seen since. But if they were going to get rid of me, why was the Dean here? My hands twisted around themselves as if they had a life of their own.

  The silence lengthened until the Dean cleared his throat and spoke. “Mr. Berger—”

  “No,” Reb Levi said. “Let him speak.”

  For once in my life, I could not. I froze. I could not clear my mind of the old vid images of torture victims. I don’t know how long the silence lasted before I broke free of my paralysis. “Wha-what do you want from me? Are you going torture me, for God’s sake?”

  The Dean gasped.

  The Rebbe’s eyebrows bunched up like some huge black caterpillars. “Despite your blasphemy, we have no wish to torture
you, Mr. Berger. Not if you accede to our wishes. On the contrary, we might have a job for you.” His smile reminded me of Dracula inviting a victim to rest in his coffin. His antipathy seeped around my mental barriers.

  A job? What in hell did that mean?

  Reb Levi tented his fingers. “Mr. Berger, you are a challenge, for your professors and the Rebbinical Council. Because of your sedition, the Council would see you leave Dovid’s World...permanently.” He stroked his scar.

  My heart bounced off my diaphragm. Exile? My family—

  Before my thoughts went further, Reb Levi added, “Or, perhaps, if you were to remain you could be taught to see the error of your ways.” He smiled and followed my glare over his shoulder to The Wall. It had taken on a life of its own in my mind.

  My body trembled. The man exuded malignant pleasure as he watched me, and my stomach twisted again, despite my shields.

  “I see either option as a waste,” he said. “You are among the brightest young persons at the Academy. Therefore, we have proposed a compromise.” He turned to the Dean and nodded. “You may explain, Dean Altschul.”

  Altschul cleared his throat. “Mr. Berger, the Council has suggested several things. First, they would like to see you gone from Dovid’s World within a month.”

  I felt like I had been gut-punched. When I caught my breath, my next words were comical considering my situation. “But I have final exams...and graduation.”

  “Yes, yes.” The Dean waved off my outburst. “There is no problem. You could fail all your finals and still graduate with honors. The Rebbinical Council has ordered the Academy to waive your examinations and confer your degree early.” He stood and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Doctor Berger.”

  My mouth hung open. Was he serious? Things were happening too fast. Had I just gone from the Inquisition’s prisoner to a full-fledged Doctor of Veterinary Medicine in the span of minutes? I finally stood and shook the Dean’s hand, confused but not so befuddled that I didn’t know to wait for the other shoe to drop.