by Craig Spence
Bertrand and Ariel sat with their backs against the knobby bark of a Douglas fir on the Forestview grounds. Einstein sat between them, his tiny body giving off its puppy warmth.
The days since Libra’s death had been an emotional tilt-o-whirl. They had cried, of course, buckets of tears. But they had smiled, too, and even laughed out loud at the memories of Libra, Genie, and the others.
They couldn’t mourn in peace, though. They were in a state of high alert. Bertrand had no doubt Frank Hindquist was behind the attack on the SMART lab.
“Remember the little yellow cap under the AMOS dumpster?” he reminded Ariel. She nodded. “A dart cover.” She nodded again. “Whoever kidnapped the pups used tranquilizer darts to kill Libra,” he concluded.
“That wouldn’t stand up in court,” Ariel observed.
“We’re not in a court. We know Hindquist was involved, and I think we both know why.”
“The militarized SMART dog theory?”
“It’s the only lead we’ve got.”
“Lead!” she balked. “Lead to what, Birdman?”
“To the truth,” he said. “To Libra’s pups.”
Justice would have to wait, though. Survival came first. Einstein was just a puppy and he had to be protected. Corporal Pinehurst had come up with the idea of putting him in a “witness protection program”. Instead of removing Hindquist’s wire taps from the laboratory phones, they used them to feed AMOS false information. They put out the story that Einstein had suffocated under his mother after she collapsed.
“They might fall for it,” Corporal Pinehurst said.
“Why not just raid the AMOS factory and recover Einstein’s brothers and sisters?” Bertrand demanded.
“We don’t have enough evidence to get a warrant,” the corporal explained.
He thought Bertrand’s theory about Frank Hindquist being a global arms merchant was over the top. “He’s well known and respected in the community,” Corporal Pinehurst said. “We can’t just go accusing him of something like that.”
So, Hindquist wasn’t even under suspicion. For days Bertrand expected armed thugs to show up at the front door of their townhouse. He couldn’t imagine the president of AMOS being taken in by their ruse. A week had passed, though, and he had relaxed a bit. You couldn’t maintain a state of high alert forever. Maybe Hindquist had fallen for it after all.
“At least it’s given us some time,” Bertrand said.
“Time for what?” Ariel wanted to know.
“To train,” he answered resolutely. “To plan.”
“You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?”
“I think I am,” Bertrand smirked.
“Then count me in,” she said after a moment’s reflection.
“Are you sure, Airee?”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind,” she said defiantly. “That was my dog they took. I want her back.”
Bertrand grinned. He’d always appreciated Ariel’s common sense and good advice, no matter how irritating she might be.
But now, more then ever, he needed her on his side. One thing was certain: if Ariel said she was going to do something, she would do it well.
They shook on it, Einstein placing his tiny paw on top of their clasped hands for good measure.
Upbringing
Genie hated the treadmill.
“Atta girl!”
As always, Bob Gowler, who had been assigned to work in the lab, cheered her on, cranking up the dial a notch at a time until they achieved running speed.
“Forty kilometres per hour, Genie. Let’s see how long you can sustain that pace!” Dr. Molar challenged from his desk.
At first she’d refused to run. Doctor Molar fixed that! He built a cage around the treadmill, secured Genie to the front of it on a leash, then turned the machine on . . . run or get dragged to death, those were her options.
Genie ran.
It had been months since they’d needed the contraption, but Doctor Molar kept it handy, just in case. Or did they still need it for Cap? It would be just like him to be best at being stubborn. That had always been his strong suit.
She settled into her run.
For a while Doctor Molar had posted the dogs’ training stats on the laboratory wall, right in front of the machine. Genie had pulled away from the others. She could maintain the highest speed on a distance run, and achieve the fastest sprint time. She took grim satisfaction in that. The same phenomenon showed up in their mental tests. Her times in the maze and command recognition trials were far better than her siblings.
Then, she’d been separated from Cap, Breeze, and Blizzard. Days went by when Genie did not see them. Gradually the periods of isolation melded one into the other, until she realized they’d been separated for good.
As the weeks and months wore on, Genie had to admit she did not miss her brothers and sister. That surprised her. She imagined Libra’s growl of disapproval. But no matter what their mother thought, Genie and Einstein had always been different. Einstein’s refusal to accept the obvious didn’t make their superior intelligence any less true, either. Professor Smith and Dr. Molar had both proved it in all sorts of trials.
The treadmill rumbled on mindlessly. Genie closed her eyes and imagined the world outside AMOS. Fragments of memory resolved into vague impressions of Campus Green and Campus Wood. In her daydream she continued running beyond Triumph’s fringe of trees, gliding into a world of broad fields and long roads, where the sun warmed her fur and pungent odours enticed her in every direction.
She ran hard, the imagined air streaming over her sleek body.
Much as she hated Hindquist and despised Doctor Molar, she had to admit they drove her toward a sort of perfection. Physically and mentally she felt herself growing every day. She couldn’t deny a certain sense of satisfaction in her taut muscles and acute mind. Would she have been pushed so hard and so far in the care of Ariel Krieger?
No, Genie snorted. I’d spend my days snoozing on the sofa, getting fat and stupid.
Frank Hindquist’s way of thinking had infected her. Genie shuddered but could no more deny the truth than a hawk could be a sparrow, or a wolf a poodle.
What a shock it had been to discover that, aside from Bertrand, Hindquist was the only human she had ever met who could communicate in Dog! How could she avoid being influenced when he was continually insinuating his way into her thoughts?
Murderer! she snarled.
His answer to the charge infuriated Genie. It was an answer that slithered like a snake in the grass. “I didn’t kill your mother. Charlie Gowler did,” Hindquist always objected, “and it was an accident. He was supposed to tranquilize her, not kill her. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of sending a buffoon on a serious mission.”
A mealy-mouthed, pathetic excuse, Genie huffed. But Hindquist didn’t stop there.
“Besides,” he would go on, “your mother didn’t die an ignoble death. She didn’t succumb to old age or disease, or get run down in the street, the victim of chance. Your mother and you are more than mere spectators, Genie; you are in the van of history. Your destiny lies here, at AMOS, and your mother’s destiny was to give birth to the greatest dog that has ever lived!
The original of all canine operatives. Think of it, you are to be the first dog in history to have authority over men. Next to you, your mother will be the most highly honoured dog in the new world order. She will never be forgotten.”
Madness! He talked such madness!
Genie ran hard, pushing to keep up with the machine. She didn’t want to think anymore. She’d had enough of thinking, for every thought tended toward the same end: Hindquist.
Run! Run! The patter of her feet, heaving of her chest, flexing of her muscles, she concentrated on those things, dissolving her fury into the rhythms of the chase. This place, AMOS, and the man who ruled it, bent you to the very point of breaking, but not beyond. That they could break her, Genie didn’t doubt; that they didn’t, showed their exquis
ite skill. Hindquist had drawn her tense as a bowstring. In his hands she had become a lethal weapon.
Good! Very good!
Genie’s head snapped sideways and she found herself staring into Hindquist’s cold, grey eyes. He crouched beside the machine. How long he’d been there, studying her, she could not say. She felt shaved and naked. She growled.
“Switch it off!” Hindquist ordered.
Bob fiddled with the controls and the treadmill coasted to a stop. Genie sat panting on the rubber mat, stealing herself for another of Hindquist’s little ‘chats’. She could have lunged. Should have! But they were beyond all that. Her heart sank. How could she sit face to face with her mother’s murderer and not attack? How? Cap wouldn’t hold back, she thought, ashamed. He would kill Hindquist or die trying.
You’re smarter than that, Hindquist explained.
A threatening growl rumbled in the back of Genie’s throat.
Her lips curled, haunches tensed. It embarrassed her, getting caught out. She needed to be more careful with her thoughts.
How long will you shun your destiny . . . our destiny? Hindquist wanted to know. I’m not asking forgiveness. I don’t need that. What I am suggesting is we move on. Perhaps, as you grow into greatness, you will be able to let go of this bone of hatred. What has happened in the past will pale in comparison to what must happen in the future, I have no doubt.
Murderer!
Ignoring the accusation, Hindquist stretched out his hand, as if to pat her. He’d never attempted this. It alarmed and revolted her. Genie struck instantly, sinking her fangs into the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger. Hindquist winced, but didn’t flinch.
Genie did not tear at him, but simply held his hand firmly, tasting his blood in her throat. Never! she growled. You will never touch me!
Then she spat out the offending flesh.
Grinning, Hindquist pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to the wound.
None of you will ever touch me.
“Okay,” he agreed. There’s no need anyway.
She detected a flicker of disappointment in those cold, grey eyes though, a lament that lasted less than a second, like a single, almost subliminal frame in a full-length movie.
But I trust we can get on with your real training now. You do understand that your fate is linked to AMOS, don’t you?
Turn on the machine! she snarled.
Hindquist nodded his head in agreement. Still holding her in his gaze, he ordered Bob to start the treadmill. “You do understand,” he repeated, as she progressed from a walk, to a jog, to a flat out run.
Run! she commanded her reluctant limbs. Run!
Bob Gowler had often heard the story about how dumb he was. Charlie told it so frequently it had acquired a certain smoothness, like a well-worn trail. He could string it out for an hour or more, embellishing the facts with supporting details, but really, the tale about Bob’s IQ could easily be delivered in a line or two: as an infant his parents called him stupid so often and from such an early age that he mistakenly came to believe Stupid was his proper name. “Me Stupid,” was the first sentence he uttered, and “Me Stupid,” had been forever recorded in the annals of Gowler family history.
So when Doctor Molar called Bob into his office one day and told him what had to be done with the “substandard animals” — Cap, Breeze, and Blizzard — Bob didn’t trust his first impulse, which was to jump over the desk and pound the crap out of the smug scientist. Instead he smiled and nodded. Doctor Molar clocked in as a certified genius, so obviously he must be right: the thing to do was inject the three dogs with lethal doses of tranquilizers, sending them to “doggie heaven” as quietly and painlessly as possible.
“It’s a simple matter, really. We have all the drugs we need on hand, and a proven delivery system.”
By that, he meant the little vials of serum in the lab’s medicine cabinet and the blowgun that had been used so effectively on Libra. “It’ll be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel,” Dr. Molar observed, noting that the dogs were all locked in their pens.
There was just one problem: Bob couldn’t do it. I won’t! he repeated to himself the whole time Doctor Molar blandly rattled off his instructions. I’ve had enough of killing.
Of course, these thoughts were contrary to Bob’s upbringing and training. He knew perfectly well how dumb it was to become attached to anything noble or beautiful, for those qualities were inevitably destroyed in his world. Nevertheless, as Doctor Molar droned on, he thought how much he loved the three SMART dogs and how he would risk anything to set them free.
“They are SMART dogs, even if they aren’t nearly as intelligent as Genie,” Doctor Molar was saying. “They will figure out what you’re up to, so the quicker you get through this unpleasant business, the better for you and for them. Once you have put them down, you will have to get rid of the carcasses, of course,” Doctor Molar added. “You’ll have to bury them.”
“Yeah,” Bob heard himself agree. Dumb as he was, he knew better than to object to the assignment. If he refused, they would simply get somebody else to do it. Bob supposed they’d asked him because he’d been working with the SMART dogs all along, and because he was the only person left to do dirty work since his brother’s demotion. Hindquist had relegated Charlie to parking lot patrol after the botched kidnap operation.
Having finished his instructions, Doctor Molar sat behind his desk like a plump Buddha, waiting for questions. To avoid suspicion Bob asked where he could bury the dogs once they’d been euthanized.
“Somewhere they won’t be found,” Doctor Molar quipped. “I suppose the old gravel pit will do. The ground is easy to dig and it’s out of the way. We’ll have Charlie give you a hand.”
Bob cringed, stifling a yelp of protest. He’d just have to figure out a way to fool Charlie and Doctor Molar, despite their superior intelligence. “We’ll do it after dark,” he said, playing for time. “Can’t go burying corpses in broad daylight.”
Dr. Molar nodded in agreement.
“Tough break, man,” Charlie consoled breezily after Bob filled him in on the assignment. “You must be attached to the mutts, working with them and all.”
Bob nodded.
“Best get it over with quick, eh?” Charlie tapped the blowgun, which sat on the table between them. “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll do the job, then you can help pack ’em up for disposal.”
Bob shook his head. “I’ll do it,” he said, slamming his hand down to prevent Charlie from picking up the blowgun.
“But I thought . . . ”
“I’ll put them down!” Bob insisted.
“Whoa! Okay.” Charlie held up his hands in mock surrender. Since the SMART lab fiasco he couldn’t afford to step out of line, not even with his upstart little brother.
“You get the van ready. I’ll bring them out,” Bob ordered.
“It’s your show, little bro,” Charlie sneered. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.” He shoved back his chair and strode out of the room.
For a second doubts assailed Bob. Maybe he should let Charlie in on the plan . . .
“Don’t be stupid,” he spat. Charlie wouldn’t have anything to do with it. He’d rat to get back in Hindquist’s good graces, and for the SMART dogs that would mean certain death.
Reluctantly, Bob picked up the blowgun. “No sense putting it off,” he grunted, hoisting himself out of his chair. He’d thought his plan through carefully. It might work; then again, it might not. Either way, the odds weren’t going to be made any better by his sitting around, stewing over them.
He removed five darts from their holders on the blowgun and laid them out on a laboratory workbench. The dogs weighed in at twenty-five kilograms and he needed them out for about an hour. Too much serum and they wouldn’t wake up in time; to little and they wouldn’t stay down long enough. He wanted them to revive during the drive out to the gravel pit, but to look limp and dead when he loaded them up for transporting. He had to
hope that when they did come to, they’d figure things out and not give themselves — and him — away.
They are SMART dogs, after all, he reminded himself, snapping the darts back into their holders.
He made his way through to the kennel briskly, like a man set on a grim mission. Doctor Molar and Hindquist might have been watching on AMOS TV, as the surveillance system was fondly known.
Breeze’s cage came first. She regarded him uncertainly from behind her chain link fence. Bob shoved a dart into the blowgun and raised it to his lips. If Breeze remembered the weapon from the night of her abduction, she didn’t show it. She watched, puzzled, as he aimed. Bob held his fire a second or two, pleading silently for her to forgive him, then he let fly.
Phtoo!
The dart zipped out of the gun, stinging her left shoulder. She yelped, giving him a hurt, betrayed look, then staggered back and sank to the floor, unconscious.
Cap and Blizzard couldn’t see what was going on, but the zing of the dart and Breeze’s yelp set them off. Their furious barks echoed through the kennel. His hands shaking, Bob reloaded and scuttled over to the front of Blizzard’s cage. The dog retreated as far into his cubicle as he could, pacing nervously. Bob poked the blowgun through the fencing and aimed.
Phtoo!
The dart pierced Blizzard’s right haunch, hanging there like barbed spear. Blizzard sat, wobbled, then lay down, giving in to the drug.
Cap snarled and lunged at the chain link fence when Bob positioned himself in front of the third cage.
Phtoo!
The first dart glanced off the mesh and missed. Bob reloaded, then fired again, this time puncturing Cap’s shoulder. Instead of sedating him, though, the injection goaded Cap into an even more violent attack, frothing and biting at the wire mesh.
Bob loaded a third dart into the chamber.
“Please!” he begged silently. “Go down!”
A second injection would almost certainly kill the dog, but Bob couldn’t hold off or Hindquist would be suspicious. He inhaled, took aim . . . then paused. Cap’s rage subsided suddenly. The dog fought against it, but the poison in his veins took hold, and like a drunk he stumbled, then passed out.