Einstein Dog

by Craig Spence

  “I’ll kill them!” he swore. “I’ll kill ’em all!”

  Fire! Einstein shouted.

  Phtoo! Phtoo! Phtoo!

  Bertrand opened up from his position by the patio door, unleashing a stream of hardened paintballs.

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  The plastic nuggets smacked into Charlie.

  “Ow!” he roared.

  When one of the balls beaned him on the forehead he flung the revolver aside and shielded his face with his hands.

  Time for me to make my getaway! Einstein signaled.

  He darted out onto the patio, but instead of making a straight dash into the nearby stand of Ponderosa pines, Einstein stood his ground just outside the sliding door. He wanted to be sure the Gowler brothers had seen him. Besides, a paintball gun was no match for a 32-calibre pistol and Bob was already making for their weapon. Einstein had to be sure they wouldn’t get a chance to take out their revenge on the Smiths.

  Hold your fire! Einstein ordered Bertrand.

  “But . . . ”

  Hold your fire!

  For a second the scene froze. Bob stared at the cocky pooch, Charlie’s gun hanging at his side.

  Charlie, who’d taken the brunt of the paintball barrage, struggled to his feet. “Shoot him!” he screamed. “Shoot the stupid mongrel!”

  Quaking, Bob raised the pistol, but before he could take aim Einstein made his move. Darting across the lawn, he latched on to the front of Charlie’s sweatshirt. Charlie struggled to pull away, but the frenzied animal hung on tenaciously. Bob pointed the gun in Charlie’s direction, but couldn’t risk shooting.

  Realizing he was on his own, Charlie raised his fist, aiming a skull-crushing blow at his attacker. Anticipating the haymaker, Einstein released the front of the sweatshirt and sprang back just in time to watch Charlie’s fist whistle by and connect.

  “Uh!” Charlie gasped, doubled over by the force of his own blow.

  “Ow!” Bob winced in sympathy.

  Before either could recover Einstein darted away between the trunks of the towering pines.

  Off in the distance a siren wailed. Then another, and another. Professor Smith had been roused by the ruckus and called the cops.

  “Damn!” Charlie groaned. “Get us out of here!”

  Forgotten was the dog, the boy holed up in the house, even the inevitable rage of Frank Hindquist. The Gowler brothers retreated in disarray, scrambling back to the dock, tumbling into their boat, and roaring off into the night.

  Hindquist strode through the AMOS plant. “Damn them!” he cursed.

  He would have liked nothing better than to have the Gowler brothers marched outside and shot. Charge: inexcusable stupidity. Verdict: irredeemably guilty. How could they have botched the Einstein mission? How could they have been so soundly thrashed by a teenage boy and a dog — even a SMART dog? They were worse than useless.

  Gritting his teeth, he barged through the passageway leading to the AMOS Canine Training Facility. One of the brothers would pay the price of incompetence, he vowed, and the example might make the other more diligent in future. The president of AMOS smiled grimly: he would get half his revenge that very day.

  As for Einstein, he would be eliminated. The dog had outsmarted the Gowler brothers but was no match for Frank Hindquist. He rejected the very notion that Einstein might remain at large. “I’ll get my hands on that mutt,” he snarled. “The world isn’t big enough for him to hide in.”

  Who could say what might happen if Einstein remained at large? He might find his way back to Bertrand and Professor Smith; they might decide to produce their own commercial breed of SMARTs, with Einstein as the original. Or some other breeder might get his hands on Einstein and go into competition with AMOS. Hindquist could not allow that.

  “A shame really,” Hindquist shook his head. If they’d captured Einstein on the same night as the other pups, perhaps there would have been no need to destroy him. He might have turned out like Genie. But Bertrand and Professor Smith had ruined the animal. He could never be trusted, which left only one option: “Liquidation,” Hindquist muttered.

  At the end of the long corridor he inserted his ID card into a slot then pushed open a metal clad door with DANGER: NO ENTRY stenciled on it in red letters.

  If you didn’t know better, you might have been fooled into thinking you’d stepped outside. The Canine Training Centre contained a forest environment, a tiny lake, a desert, and an urban combat zone. Daytime in this cavernous world was achieved by switching on the lights; night, by dimming them. Doctor Molar simulated climates by adjusting heaters, air conditioners, sprinklers, and dehumidifiers.

  Genie had been trained to operate under almost any conditions in this movie-set world, and Hindquist was pleased with her progress; very pleased. They’d transformed her into a truly lethal weapon. Just one exercise remained to make her training complete: a very special test Hindquist looked forward to watching. After today she would be ready for her first real assignment: tracking down her own brother, Einstein.

  Hindquist climbed the metal stairs to the control room, which hung from steel girders in the ceiling. Inside Doctor Molar sat at a console, scanning a bank of video screens.

  “Hello, Doctor,” Hindquist said cheerfully.

  “Mr. Hindquist,” the doctor answered, nodding.

  “Are we ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Doctor Molar answered nervously, quickly turning back to his TV monitors. No doubt he’d heard about the latest Gowler gaffe.

  “I think she’s ready for a higher level of simulation, don’t you?” Hindquist nodded at the prep room monitor, where a handler was outfitting Genie for her sortie. “I think Bob has outlived his usefulness as her quarry.”

  Until the botched disposal of the substandard SMARTs, Bob Gowler had been in charge of prepping Genie. Since then he’d been given a new assignment: Bob had become Genie’s prey. For weeks she’d hunted him down over and over, honing her skills as a tracker and marksman.

  “She’s very good,” Doctor Molar was saying. “Poor Bob doesn’t stand a chance. She gets him every time, usually within a couple of minutes.” He chuckled. “Good thing we’re using the paintball rig instead of live rounds. Bob looks like abstract art by the end of each session.”

  Now Hindquist chuckled, but in a way that made Doctor Molar shiver.

  “Remember when we had her tracking dogs?” Hindquist said. “In the final stage of that module we put the real K-Pack on her.”

  “Yes,” Doctor Molar answered.

  “We felt she had to get used to the real harness as opposed to the paintball gear.”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to do the same with a human subject, don’t you think, Doctor?” Hindquist grinned at his head scientist.

  “With blanks, you mean. Same as with the dogs.”

  “Well, no, actually. I think Genie has to experience the sensation of firing real bullets at a real human. I know Bob barely qualifies, but he is a man, and he is very expendable. Why not test her metal here, in a controlled environment? If she hesitates for even an instant in the field, it could make the difference between life and death.”

  “But she’ll kill him!” Doctor Molar protested.

  “Precisely, and perhaps even regrettably, but sacrifices must be made, Doctor. I rather like the idea of serving two purposes with one bullet: we give our canine operative a taste of human blood and we punish an incompetent who has repeatedly failed to carry out orders. That strikes me as an efficient way of going about things.

  “Instruct the handler to put a K-Pack on her and to load it with live rounds.”

  “But . . . ”

  “Do it!” Hindquist snarled.

  Quavering, Doctor Molar relayed the order to the prep room.

  “Are you going to tell her?” he wanted to know. “She’ll think they’re using blanks.”

  “No,” Hindquist decided. “I don’t think we will. She might be squeamish. Best to just throw her into the situatio
n, like teaching a child to swim.”

  “But, sir!”

  “Get used to it, Doctor. After all, these animals are bred and trained to kill. It’s their mission . . . and yours.”

  “But it’s murder.”

  “Cold blooded and pre-meditated,” Hindquist agreed pleasantly. “Now put me through to Bob.”

  Doctor Molar punched a couple of buttons and an image of Bob Gowler snapped onto the monitor.

  “Hello, Bob!” Hindquist called down affably.

  “Hello Mr. Hindquist.”

  “I hear you’ve been leading our canine operative on a merry chase these last few weeks. I appreciate your contribution.”

  Bob, who had looked nervous, beamed. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “It’s fun, trying to outsmart her.”

  “Good,” Hindquist laughed. “But as you know, this is serious business. It can’t be all fun and games. We need to inject a little realism into the exercise my friend, and that means a significantly greater contribution from you.”

  “Anything you say, sir. What would you like me to do?”

  “Well, you don’t have to do anything in particular, Bob, except be aware that on this run Genie will be wearing the live ammo harness.”

  “Blanks, you mean? Thanks for warning me. They make quite a bang when they go off. It would have scared the crap out of me.”

  “Well, actually Bob, we want to make this encounter as real as possible,” Hindquist corrected. “The clips will contain live ammunition, not blanks. You needn’t worry about the noise, because you may never get a chance to hear it . . . ha ha.”

  “Live rounds?” Bob choked, his eyes popping. “But she’ll kill me!”

  “Quite likely,” Hindquist agreed. “I hear she’s an expert marksman already, and that you’re an easy target. So at least your supreme sacrifice should be over with quickly and relatively painlessly.”

  “But Mr. Hindquist!” Bob pleaded.

  “Thank you for your contribution, Bob.” Hindquist punched a button to cut the doomed man off.

  “Switch the monitor to canine view and release her,” Hindquist ordered. “And make sure this session is recorded for analysis.”

  Doctor Molar hesitated a fraction of a second, then obeyed. He could easily imagine himself as the ragged figure fleeing through the canine simulation zones and, unpleasant as it was, he much preferred running the experiments to participating in them.

  Genie was having fun. She’d progressed from treadmill and maze to field simulations, which were more like games than anything else. Again she was forced to concede bitter respect to Frank Hindquist and AMOS. What would life have been like with Ariel and Mrs. Krieger — Genie’s intended family? How could kibble and two walks a day begin to compare to her role as an elite, canine recruit of the Global Council?

  Soon she would be ready for her first assignment. She would be outside, in the real world. Not leashed like someone’s pet or scavenging in back alleys like a stray, but a trusted agent operating independently.

  She hated Hindquist. But no dog had ever been given such freedom, such power: he had made her what she was.

  “Just one more test, then you’re ready,” he had promised. “You must learn to overcome the instinctive fear dogs have of humans. You must begin to think yourself superior, subject to a higher order than the vast majority of dogs and men.

  “The rabble has no purpose other than to do what the elite commands. Ordinary men and women are beasts of burden with no more right to self-determination than cattle. The elite must tell them what to do. The elite decide whether it is in the interests of a higher destiny that they should live or die.

  “Your allegiance must always be to that elite, Genie, and if it orders the liquidation of a human unit for any reason that suits the larger design, then that man must die. We mustn’t sap our loyalty by allowing any mawkish qualms.”

  Mawkish qualms! She wondered what Hindquist’s final test would be, if mawkish was what he called her natural aversion to murder.

  For weeks now she’d been tracking and “killing” Bob Gowler with paintballs. Before that she’d hunted dogs, a few times wearing the K-Pack loaded with blanks. She had wondered during those exercises what it would be like go into battle fully armed, to spit live ammunition at her quarry the same way she squeezed rounds at the practice range.

  Genie loved the kick of a gun firing over her shoulder, exulted in seeing the near-instantaneous shredding of a target with her deadly fire. Nothing she’d ever experienced gave her the same surge of power. But the thought of actually killing left her cold. She had honed all the skills she needed to hunt, but would she be able to pull the trigger when the time came?

  She dreamed of killing Charlie Gowler, of course. How often had she made him beg for mercy, his thick lips quivering, tears streaming from his beady eyes down his pudgy cheeks? How often had she savoured the grim satisfaction of letting him think she might grant clemency, only to pull the trigger in an act of delicious revenge? What thrilled her most in those lurid daydreams was Charlie’s look of fright mingled with surprise at the moment of execution.

  Yes, if she had Charlie Gowler in her sights, Genie would shoot to kill.

  Hindquist spurred her on. After she’d trained a couple of days with Bob, the president of AMOS said, “A dedicated operative uses any and every means of inflicting damage on the enemy. If the enemy has a brother, then the brother must die, even if he’s perfectly innocent. If he has a mother, a father, a sister, a son . . . they are fair game, for by inflicting damage on them, the agent weakens the enemy’s resolve.”

  All out war, Genie said. Terrorism.

  “Charlie Gowler killed your mother,” Hindquist overrode her objection. “He is your enemy. I want you to remember that. Think of Bob: he is Charlie’s flesh and blood. Think how Charlie’s interests would be affected if Bob were to die. Imagine yourself avenging your mother every time you hit Bob with a practice ball. Imagine that ball aimed at Charlie, not Bob.”

  But I thought Charlie killed my mother by accident, Genie reminded.

  “Incompetence must be punished,” Hindquist replied with a shrug.

  “Ready, sir,” her handler said, opening the prep room door and standing aside.

  Genie stepped into the garish light of the practice field. Something felt not quite right. She glanced up at the control room. Hindquist waved like an indulgent parent.

  What’s he up to?

  Then she remembered the game. That’s what mattered. The game. Get Bob!

  She trotted along just below the ridge of a sand dune, making her way round to the edge of the urban combat zone. The still air carried smudges of scent, but nothing Genie could identify with certainty. She felt uneasy, though. Something was wrong, even though she couldn’t draw any definite conclusions from the faint remnants of odor that hung in the atmosphere.

  When she reached the huddle of makeshift buildings, she sniffed at the motionless air again. Bob had been through this way. She snuffled, analyzing his chemical ghost.

  Fear! There was no mistaking the acrid odor. A surge of adrenaline raised her hackles. Fear meant danger. Why should he be afraid? It’s only a game, she reminded herself.

  Perhaps Hindquist had upped the ante, Genie guessed. Maybe he’d threatened punishments if Bob’s performance didn’t improve: electric shocks, perhaps, or beatings. It would be just like the psychopathic president of AMOS to add that kind of twist to the game.

  Madman! she snorted.

  What about her, though? Why was she so keen on the hunt? Instead of discouraging her, Bob’s fear aroused Genie’s instinct to track and kill. Fear made the game better! He deserves it, she told herself. Bob was not guilty of her mother’s murder, and had proven himself a gentle spirit, but he had been an accomplice, even if an unwilling one. A little time in purgatory would serve him right. She remembered Hindquist’s advice, too. If she injured Bob, she got back at Charlie, just as surely as if she had bitten the older Gowler’s arm or leg.

>   Get him! she grunted, loping around the back of the town’s main building.

  The rough-hewn structures of Amosville were plywood mock-ups that could be disassembled and rearranged at will. They made for good cover. She listened and sniffed for more signs of Bob. Nothing. Instead of moving on and forcing an encounter, Genie decided to hole up for a while, observing from an upper floor. She wanted to think through this new aspect of the exercise, this element of fear.

  Bob would be in the forested zone. Nowhere else he can be, she decided, trying to think like a frightened human. Rather than move about and risk being spotted, he would hunker down in a place that offered maximum protection and view. He’d hope to get a shot off if she exposed herself trying to take his position. Entrenched defence, she concluded. Best to wait and see if he showed himself. She settled in, keeping close watch on the forest zone.

  “Canine Operative One. CO-One. Acknowledge.” Hindquist’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Status changed,” he said. “Code Red. The mission is now Code Red.”

  He had upped the urgency to the highest priority. Code Red meant she had to reach her objective as quickly as possible by any means available. They wanted her to flush and destroy the enemy aggressively.

  Genie backed away from the window, removing herself from Bob’s probable line of fire. She was out of range for a paintball gun, but some day might be up against live ammunition. When that day came, she wanted her actions to be instinctive. The whole time she’d been watching the forest, she’d also been checking for any signs of Bob in Amosville, listening and sniffing at the still air. He’s not here, she said. Just in case, though, she carried out a quick sweep of the streets and buildings. If he were in hiding, she would make an easy target while heading out of town.

  She clacked her teeth, calling up the aiming system of the assault rifle built into her body armour. Crosshairs appeared inside the curve of her helmet visor. She also activated the K-Pac’s motion and infrared detectors.