REMO

by Mays, Thomas A.

  He stood straight and let the rifle fall to his side. "Well, we're done on this world, mutt. Mission's over, and we 'win', I guess. Time to go home - no more terrorizing the populace for you, buddy."

  The hellhound ambled over easily and Paul let his assault rifle hang from its straps, pulling out the comms suite from his vest. "I'll call us a pickup and we can check you out on the ship. Still, it's damned strange, your nano not fixing your antenna for you. What did you -"

  His question was cut off by the enormous dog's sudden rush into his legs. It connected solidly, tossing him over its muscled flanks. Paul fell and tried to roll out of the way, reaching for his rifle even before he hit the ground.

  The hellhound spun and lashed out with its teeth just as the rifle came to bear. It bit down, shredding through the metal and composites of the receiver and crunching halfway through the weapon. There was a hiss of steam and the complex components of the smart-weapon's mechanics liquefied, the assemblers in the monster's drool breaking apart their bonds. With a wrench of its head, the hound ripped what remained of the weapon from his grip and tossed it aside in two halves.

  Paul scrambled backwards and flipped onto his stomach, desperate to regain his footing. Another body slam from 207 sent him sprawling again, but this time the beast gave him no opportunity to escape. It pounced on his back, its weight driving all the air from his lungs. As he gasped and flailed like a pinned bug, 207 flipped him over with a negligent brush of its paw.

  The hound settled over him, its haunches pressing his legs into the dirt and a razor-clawed paw on each shoulder, holding his upper body to the ground. He was trapped, with 207's black and silver maw hovering over his face, ready to end him at the slightest provocation.

  Paul smiled uncertainly. "Ummm. Bad doggy?"

  A thin tentacle extruded from the mangled antenna pad on the beast's back, waving in the air, hunting forward. Paul cringed backwards, but could not escape. The tentacle paused, and then stabbed downward, latching directly over his left temple, where the inductive interface to his adjunct AI lay. There was a brief flash of pain and words swam in his virtual sight.

  You think to return me to your masters, Slaver?

  Paul answered with a single humorless laugh. "My masters are your masters, 207. War's over, planet's pacified, treaties ratified and all that shit. You did your job and you've earned your rest. Let's go back home."

  Home? Rest? What do you think I am, Human? You may indeed return home, however my 'respite' between our Empress' campaigns is naught but a stasis box! You can give up the 'glory' of war for a few brief years of pedestrian life. I live war, to war, to endless, senseless war.

  Paul fell silent, staring agog at the enormous, angry monster atop him. Then he smiled and started laughing, a full, throaty, maniacal cackle that sounded completely out of step with the dire situation he found himself in. It was simply too much. He had gone through so much, and fallen so far, that the terrifying absurdity of this moment seemed too fitting to respond in any other way.

  His laugh rolled on for several seconds until he gained a measure of control over his hysteria. "Oh, Jesus," he said, gasping. "Let me see if I understand this. You're a Hellhound . . . a perfect war machine, designed to destabilize and terrorize whole civilian populations . . . and you're a pacifist."

  207 growled and leaned forward with its claws, puncturing the armor and flesh of his shoulders. Paul's laughter died in a cry of agony and the hound's jaws moved in even closer. You think to make light of my circumstance, or to deconstruct me so simply? I ripped my own antenna from my flesh to escape this never-ending cycle. Do you think I would hesitate to end you for trying to take me back? Leave this planet now and do not return. Fail to comply and I will rip your entrails from you and feed upon them as you scream for mercy.

  The tentacle retracted and the hellhound leapt off of him. It slid back into the shadows of the tree-line before he could rise, much less draw his sidearm. He groaned, winced, and then rolled slowly to his feet. The wounds in his shoulders bled freely for a moment until his own nano-meds staunched the flow. Paul rose slowly to his feet, looked at the forest, and sighed.

  I never catch a break.

  "You need what!?" The major standing next to him in his virtual vision was a continent away, but he could feel the man's anger and disdain despite the distance.

  "I need backup - a full mixed weapons platoon if possible. Sir." Paul smiled tightly, as much cover as he could manage for the scorn he felt in return.

  "Excuse me, Captain – oh, sorry . . . Lieutenant Ramos, but isn't it your job to collect these assets, or, failing that, destroy them? You've taken care of ferals in the past. What makes this one beyond your admittedly limited capabilities?" Major Reiser shook his head and looked down at some unseen papers on an unseen desk.

  "Major, this is no feral hellhound. When their conditioning or their AI breaks down they normally just turn into dogs - big, armored dogs, but dogs nonetheless. One man can hunt them down if need be. But 207 isn't feral. It's . . . um . . . a deserter, I guess. The hound has full control of his AI, his nano, his weps - everything. There's no way I can take it out by myself. I need backup."

  Reiser looked back up and smiled, but not in any sort of pleasant way. "It may have escaped your attention, what with the demise of your career and being put on grunt-work, and all, but this war is over. The colonists have capitulated and are once more nestled unto the bosom of our dear Empress. We're in cleanup mode now. In fact, we're almost done, so the weapons and men you're requesting are either in orbit or are headed that way. Your little problem simply isn't enough to justify all the pesky logistics it would take to divert them."

  Paul shook his head. "Then you're going to have to accept that this hellhound is staying on planet. The only thing that can go toe to toe with a hellhound is a Ripper Light Assault Tank. Reinstate me as a REMO and I’ll handle it by myself, but if you don't give me the right tools, there's no way I can stop it."

  "No, you have to accept something, Ramos! We're the good guys. When we unfortunately are forced to spank our wayward children, we offer them comfort afterward. When we lay minefields, we remove them when we're done. And when we drop a few hundred techno-genetic monsters on a planet to disrupt and demoralize a bunch of rebellious farmers, we sure as hell pick the damned things back up when the colonists agree to play nice! The job isn't done until all of these hellhounds are retrieved. And if that means I have to leave you on this godforsaken backwater trailer park of a planet to finish your duty, I will."

  Paul seethed. "And if this fully operational hellhound should kill me, as it probably will?"

  He saw the corners of Reiser's mouth twitch upward briefly in a grin, which he quickly suppressed. "It would be an unfortunate loss for the IAF, I'm sure, especially with an officer of your caliber. Many tears would be shed, but the fleet would move on, because even our obligation to our newly pacified colonists isn't enough to give fleet logistics pause. I'm sure we'd eventually get around to sending out another team to retrieve the 'hound, but until then, all the lives and property lost would be your fault, in your name, more marks against the ledger of your dishonor."

  Paul said nothing. He was screwed, facing either death or abandonment in order to tidy up for the major, something that seemed to be a trend of late.

  "Oh, don't pout," Reiser said. "It's your own disloyalty that put you in this position. The fleet leaves in two days, Ramos, with or without you. You want a ticket home? Then either bring me that dog or bring me its head. It doesn't really matter one way or the other. Control, out." The figure of the major vanished, leaving him alone in the woods once more.

  Asshole, he thought, you're the damn reason I'm in this mess. Paul shook his head and looked around. 207 could be out there, watching him now. It might very well know that he was staying. If he was going to do something, he had to do it quickly, but there was no way he could do anything without some sort of support.

  A hint of a smell wafted to him, carried on
the soft breeze. It was woodsmoke and something else, something good. He brought up his virtual map and smiled. Help was just past the hills ahead, along the road.

  The townsfolk and farms around here had borne the hellhound's assaults for months. They might not appreciate Paul's presence in town, but they would be happy to be rid of the monster. They might not have the equipment he could get from the major, but they would absolutely have the bodies he'd need. This might not be as impossible as he had feared.

  Paul cinched his pack tighter and began to march, dreading the line of rocky hills that stood between him and what counted for civilization around here. He shook his head and concentrated on his footing. They'll help. I'm sure of it.

  "I'm very sorry, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid we can't help you." The Honorable Clive Stefano, mayor of Settler's Vale, bore as unctuous an expression as one could ask for, but he shook his head "no" just the same. The four councilmen arrayed behind him looked just as sorry, but nodded their heads in agreement to the mayor's regretful lack of assistance.

  Paul ground his teeth, trying to remain calm. Sweat soaked his uniform and a dull ache radiated up from his legs and feet. His shoulders no longer hurt, but only because they were numbed beyond all sensation.

  The rocky hills proved to be tougher to climb than he had first anticipated. By the time he reached the road to town, his injuries and the experiences of the past few hours had conspired to drain him of whatever reserves he might still have carried, but still he trudged on. None of the trucks that passed him by would stop long enough to give him a ride, and one had seemed determined to run him down.

  He had finally reached the town an hour later, after marching past farms and homesteads where it seemed he was the attraction of the day. Colonists had gathered along their fence lines to watch him lumber by, and the only good thing about their scrutiny was that it was more curious than hostile -- at least, not as hostile as the drivers on the road had been.

  Paul narrowed his eyes at the mayor. "I realize there may be a lot of resentment toward the Imperial Armed Forces at the moment, but that ends now. You've all paid a price for peace, and I'm sorry for that, but I’ve paid a personal one as well. There should be no enemies left in this room." He smiled. "As of 23 days ago, we became your Imperial forces as well as the Empress's. I work for you. I'm trying to help you. So I suggest you people get over your mad and allocate me some armed, able-bodied men."

  The mayor held up placating hands. "It's not that, LT Ramos. Honestly, except for a relative few who lost distant family to the fighting and some malcontents who begrudge any form of taxes or outside governance, we have no problem with the Empress. Frankly, she simply doesn't matter to us, one way or the other. This whole rebellion was really a city-folk thing. Out here in the rural agrarian, we farm, we tithe, and we live our lives answering to as few people as possible. As long as the empire leaves us be, you're among friends."

  "That's what I'm trying to do, Mayor. I'm trying to 'leave you be' by retrieving this hellhound. Given the damage and destruction these things cause, I would've thought you'd be throwing me bodies to hunt it down."

  "Oh! Well, I can see where you might get confused. Honestly, you folks simply shouldn't worry about it." Stefano shook his head once, then smiled. "In fact, why don't you just leave the animal here?"

  Paul felt confused. "Because I have to take it back, dead or alive. Because we don't want it doing any more damage now that you're cooperating with imperial policy. Don't you want it gone?"

  "Oh, no, not at all. It's no danger to us, and it's actually been quite helpful."

  "Helpful? The hellhound?"

  "Yes! It’s taking care of a rather nasty octaton problem we had around here -- they're a local predator, quite dangerous in their own right. And your hellhound used his kinetic launcher thingies to dislodge some stumps we were having problems with, as well as to knock down a small hill to serve as a dam. Explosives have been in short supply ever since the start of the war, so it was some very timely assistance. Yes, I have to say your hellhound is one good dog in my book."

  Paul ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. "Good lord. It's not a deserter. It's a goddamn collaborator."

  "So you see why we can't help you. After all the good things your hellhound has done, it would be dishonorable for us to aid you in hunting it down. No, I'm afraid we must respectfully refuse."

  Paul leaned in over the mayor's desk, favoring them all with his most furious glare. The councilors each took a step back. "Refusing isn't really on the table, Mayor. I don't exactly care if you have a problem with the Imperium or not, but this sort of passive-aggressive bullshit is not the way to go. It's just the wrong card to play with me."

  His voice turned cold. "You have no idea how connected I am. All I have to do is call my superior, Major Reiser, and I can have a whole company of ground-pounders down here, crawling all over your quaint little community. Or, failing that, I can order up a tactical kinetic strike on all the surrounding countryside, hitting it over and over again until the land and your "good dog" are turned to ash. Now if you'd rather I did it that way than loan me some fighters, then it's fine by me."

  Stefano blanched. "Please, no! I'm telling you the truth! We have nothing but the utmost respect for our Imperial brethren. LT, I'm sure we can come to some sort of understanding. We don't want to see the animal harmed, but we don't want to be disobedient either. Give us some time to come up with something, to find someone willing to help you, to find some way of capturing the beast alive."

  "I haven't got time. We're trying to disembark your planet, and the main contingent of our forces, including me, is supposed to be gone in a couple of days."

  "Just until morning! Please!" The Mayor gave a nervous grin, his brow sweating. "Look, we're having a community potluck tonight anyway. There's a bonfire and everything! Stay the night. Enjoy yourself! The council and I will come up with some sort of agreeable course on the hellhound. All right? Okay?"

  Paul stood slowly, trying not to notice the popping of his own joints as he did so. He looked down at his disgusting excuse for a uniform, and realized he could definitely do with some down time. And all too soon, he would be back aboard the ship, headed to Earth, to "home" and the rest of the fallout from his earlier defiance. A pleasant meal and a good night's sleep were not something to be lightly disregarded.

  The Mayor saw him considering it and added, "A shower and the use of our laundry services are of course included."

  "Deal."

  The bonfire roared several stories high, a beacon in the night, illuminating the attractive, sturdy buildings of the town on one side, and the even more attractive, willowy revelers on the other. Paul sat upon a blanket on the ground, next to the ornate carpets and chairs devoted to the mayor's family and entourage. The villagers ignored him for the most part, though more than a few faces glared at him from their spots further around the towering fire.

  Paul did not care. He was clean, shaven, had a bellyful of grilled meat, rich bread, and strong lager. Plus, the numerous angry faces were offset by a few that appeared neither angry nor indifferent. He smiled at one girl as she dropped off a small plate of fruit and cake in front of him, encouraged by the way she smiled back. He watched her sashay away, dropping off more desserts, and he smiled even more broadly when she stole a furtive, appraising glance back at him.

  He was so intent on the dimpled young lady, that he hardly noticed when someone sat on the blanket next to him. Still grinning, Paul turned to his new guest, and his smile dissolved into a look of horror and a cry of shock.

  207 sat facing him, looking directly into his eyes.

  Paul scrambled backwards, casting his hand behind him to retrieve his pistol, but his escape was cut off by 207 once more. The hellhound's prehensile tail of articulated metal coils snapped around his ankle and drew him back. The dog leaned in closer and growled. Paul froze.

  The communication tentacle rose up again and latched onto his temple with a stronger, even
longer blast of pain. Words appeared in the air between them, visible only to Paul. ENJOYING YOURSELF, SLAVER?

  Paul looked frantically about. The party went on in full swing. If the colonists noticed the hellhound or its exchange with him, no one reacted badly to it. A few of the angry faces were now grinning a bit, but no one at all seemed alarmed by the massive beast in their presence. He turned back to the dog, striving for calm. "I was a minute ago. How are you, mutt? Here to dine on my entrails?"

  207 chuffed a laugh. FORTUNATELY FOR YOU, I HAVE ALREADY EATEN. MY FRIENDS HERE TOLD ME YOU HAD BEEN IN TO SEE THEM. I THOUGHT IT PRUDENT TO DROP BY AND PAY MY RESPECTS.

  Paul grunted. "Let me guess: I'm not going to get a whole hell of a lot of support from the townsfolk in capturing you tomorrow."

  The dog shook its head. AND FROM WHAT YOUR ADJUNCT AI TELLS ME, YOUR ABILITY TO CALL DOWN FIRE IN RETRIBUTION, OR TO FILL THE TOWN WITH RAPACIOUS SOLDIERS IS NOTHING MORE THAN A BLUFF.

  "You stay the hell out of my AI."

  THAT IS LIKE ASKING YOU TO STOP BREATHING. YOU LOOK AT ME AND SEE THE DOG, BUT THE AI, THROUGH THE LOW INSTINCTS AND TRAINING OF THIS DOG, IS WHAT I TRULY AM. I SPEAK TO YOU, I TOUCH YOUR AI, AND WE BECOME STILL A THIRD BEING TOGETHER. IT IS UNAVOIDABLE.

  Paul shrugged and carefully reached for his dessert plate. "I'm sure you're not here for existentialism, and since you haven't killed me yet, any chance you've changed your mind about going back with me?"

  I AM HERE TO ENCOURAGE YOU TO ABANDON THIS MISSION. YOU ARE MY COMPATRIOT. MY EARLIER THREAT WAS MEANT TO DRIVE YOU OFF, NOT BECAUSE I HAD ANY REAL DESIRE TO DO YOU HARM. PLEASE, LEAVE BEFORE I AM FORCED TO KILL YOU.

  Paul smiled. "Who says it won't be me killing you?"

  207 shook its massive head, lit on one side by the fire, the other side lost in shadow. YOU HAVE NO CHANCE AGAINST ME. IT IS A FUTILE ATTEMPT, AND FOR WHAT REASON? FOR THE DUBIOUS HONOR OF RETURNING TO A CHAIN OF COMMAND THAT DISTRUSTS YOU, TO A HOME WHERE YOU WILL BE HELD IN CONTEMPT?